II II  III  1 1 

3  1822  01096  1548 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 


Mr.  Donald  L.  DeLlamas 


PS 

33i  a. 

,M3 


^1 


MAURINE 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


ELLA  WHEELER. 


SIXTH    EDITION. 


CHICAGO: 

f|ciRRILLHlGGINS  ^  Go. 
1892. 


COPYRIGHT, 
ELLA  WHEE  LEB  WILOOX. 


1  step  across  the  mystic  border-land. 
And  look  upon  the  wonder -world  of  Art. 
How  beautiful,  how  beautiful  its  hills.' 
And  all  its  valleys,  how  surpassing  fair ! 

The  winding  paths  that  lead  up  to  the  heights 
Are  polished  by  the  footsteps  of  the  great. 
The  mountain-peaks  stand  very  near  to  God: 
The  chosen  few  whose  feet  have  trod  thereon 
Have  talked  w'ith  Him.  and  with  the  angels  walked. 

Here  are  no  sound*  of  discord— no  profan* 
Or  senseless  gossip  of  unworthy  things — 
Only  the  songs  of  chisels  and  of  pens. 
Of  busy  brushes,  and  ecstatic  strains 
Of  souls  surcharged  with  music  most  divine. 
Here  is  no  idle  sorrow,  no  poor  griff 
For  any  day  or  object  left  behind — 
For  time  is  counted  precious,  and  herein 
Is  such  complete  abandonment  of  Self 
That  tears  turn  into  rainbows,  and  enhance 
The  beauty  of  the  land  where  all  is  fair. 

Awed  and  afraid,  Icro*s  the  border-land. 

Oh,  who  am,  I,  that  I  dare  enter  here 

Where  the  great  artists  of  the  world  have  trod— 

The  genius-crowned  aristocrats  of  Earth? 

Only  the  singer  of  a  little  song; 

Yet  loving  Art  with  such  a  mighty  lore 

I  hold  it  greater  to  have  won  a  place 

Just  on  the  fair  lantTs  edge,  to  make,  my  grave, 

Than  in  the  outer  world  of  greed  and  gain 

To  sil  upon  a  royal  throne  and  reign. 

(3) 


CONTENTS. 


fAGE. 

MAURINE 7 

Two  SUNSETS 123 

UNREST 125 

"  ARTIST'S  LIFE  " 127 

NOTHING  BUT  STONES 128 

THE  COQUETTE 129 

INEVITABLE 130 

THE  OCEAN  OF  SONG 131 

"  IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEX  " .133 

IF 133 

GETHSEMANE 134 

DUST-SEALED 136 

"  ADVICE  " 137 

OVER  THE  BANISTERS 138 

MOMUS,  GOD  OF  LAUGHTER 13S 

I  DREAM 141 

THE  PAST 14?. 

THE  SONNET 14b 

SECRETS 143 

A  DREAM 144 

USELESSNEBS 14E 

WILL 145 

WINTER  RAIN 14f 

APPLAUSE 14< 

LIFE 14Y 

BURDENED         .                                       148 

THE  STORY 14£ 

LET  THEM  Go 15C 

THE  ENGINE             151 

NOTHING  NEW 152 

DREAMS 153 

HELENA lot 

NOTHING  REMAINS 15'* 

(8) 


COXTEXTS. 


. 

LEAN  DOWN 158 

COMRADES 159 

WHAT  GAIN? 161 

LIFE 162 

To  THE  WEST 163 

THE  LAND  OF  CONTENT .164 

A  SONG  OP  LIFE 165 

WARNING 167 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  NEW  YEAR  PRAYER        ....  167 

IN  THE  NIGHT 168 

GOD'S  MEASURE 169 

A  MARCH  SNOW 170 

AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER 171 

NOBLESSE  OBLIGE    ...;.....  177 

AND  THEY  ARE  DUMB 178 

NIGHT 179 

ALL  FOR  ME 181 

PHILOSOPHY 182 

"CARLOS" 183 

THE  Two  GLASSES 185 

THROUGH  TEARS 187 

INTO  SPACE 188 

THROUGH  DIM  EYES 190 

LA  MORT  D' AMOUR 191 

THE  PUNISHED 192 

HALF  FLF.DGED 193 

LOVE'S  SLEEP 194 

TRUE  CULTURE 195 

THE  VOLUPTUARY 196 

THE  YEAR 197 

THE  UNATTAINED 198 

IN  THE  CROWD 199 

LIFE  AND  I 201 

GUERDON  .                                        202 

SNOWED  UNDER 203 

PLATONIC 204 

WHAT  WE  NEED 206 

"  LEUDEMAXN'8-ON-TUE-RlVER  "     .        .                                ,  207 


CONTEXTS,  5 

PAGE. 

IN  THE  LONG  RUN 20i) 

PLEA  TO  SCIENCE 210 

LOVE'S  BURIAL 212 

LITTLE  BLUE  HOOD 213 

No  SPRING 214 

LIPPO 216 

MIDSUMMER 217 

A  REMINISCENCE      .........  218 

RESPITE 220 

A  GIRL'S  FAITH 221 

Two 222 

SLIPPING  AWAY 223 

Is  IT  DONE  ? 224 

A  LEAF 225 

^ESTHETIC 226 

POEMS  OB'  THE  WEEK 228 

GHOSTS 230 

FLEEING  AAV  AY 231 

ALL  MAD 232 

HIDDEN  GEMS 233 

BY-AND-BY 234 

OVER  THE  MAY  HILT,      .        „ k35 

A  SONG 236 

FOES 238 

FRIENDSHIP 23!) 

Two  SAT  DOWN 240 

BOUND  AND  FREE 241 

AN  AFTERNOON 242 

AN  ANSWER             243 

AQUILEIA                 244 

RIVER  AND  SEA 24<! 

WISHES  FOR  A  LITTLE  GIRL 247 

WHAT  HAPPENS 248 

ROMNEY 249 

PRAYER 250 

"  LOVE  is  ENOUGH  " 251 

POSSESSION        .                ........  252 

MY  HOME                                                                             .  253 


MAU  RI  N  E 

AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


MAURINE. 
PART  I. 

I  sat  and  sewed,  and  sang  some  tender  tune, 
Oh,  beauteous  was  that  morn  in  early  June! 
Mellow  with  sunlight,  and  with  blossoms  fair: 
The  climbing  rose-tree  grew  about  me  there, 
And  checked  with  shade  the  sunny  portico 
Where,  morns  like  this,  I  came  to  read,  or  sew. 

I  heard  the  gate  click,  and  a  firm  quick  tread 

Upon  the  walk.    •'No  need  to  turn  my  head; 

I  would  mistake,  and  doubt  my  own  voice  sounding. 

Before  his  step  upon  the  gravel  bounding. 

In  an  unstudied  attitude  of  grace, 

He  stretched  his  comely  form ;  and  from  his  face 

He  tossed  the  dark,  damp  curls;  and  at  my  knees, 

With  his  broad  hat  lie  fanned  the  lazy  breeze, 

And  turned  his  head,  and  lifted  his  large  eyes, 

Ot  that  strange  hue  we  see  in  ocean  dyes, 

And  call  it  blue  sometimes,  and  sometimes  green. 

And  save  in  poet  eyes,  not  elsewhere  seen. 


'  Lest  I  should  meet  with  my  fair  lady's  scorning, 
For  calling  quite  so  early  in  the  morning, 
I've  brought  a  passport  that  can  never  fail," 
He  said,  and,  laughing,  laid  the  morning  mail 
Upon  my  lap.     "  I'm  welcome?  so  I  thought! 
I'll  figure  by  the  letters  that  I  brought 
How  glad  you  are  to  see  me.     Only  one? 
And  that  one  from  a  lady?     I'm  undone! 
That,  lightly  skimmed,  you'll  think  me  such  a  bore, 
And  wonder  why  I  did  not  bring  you  four. 
It's  ever  thus:  a  woman  cannot  get 
So  many  letters  that  she  will  not  fret 
O'er  one  that  did  not  come." 

"  I'll  prove  you  wrong," 
I  answered  gayly,  "here  upon  the  spot! 
This  little  letter,  precious  if  not  long, 
Is  just  the  one,  of  all  you  might  have  brought, 
To  please  me.     You  have  heard  me  speak,  I'm  sure, 
Of  Helen  Trevor:  she  writes  here  to  say 
She's  coming  out  to  see  me;  and  will  stay 
Till  Autumn,  maybe.     She  is,  like  her  note, 
Petite  and  dainty,  tender,  loving,  pure. 
You'd  know  her  by  a  letter  that  she  wrote, 
For  a  sweet  tinted  thing.     'Tis  always  so: — 
Letters  all  blots,  though  finely  written,  show 
A  slovenly  person.     Letters  stiff  and  white 
Bespeak  a  nature  honest,  plain,  upright. 
And  tissuey,  tinted,  perfumed  notes,  like  this, 
Tell  of  a  creature  formed  to  pet  and  kiss." 


My  listener  heard  me  with  a  slow,  odd  smile; 
Stretched  in  abandon  at  my  feet,  the  while, 
He  fanned  me  idly  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat. 
"  Then  all  young  ladies  must  be  formed  for  that!" 
He  laughed,  and  said. 

"  Their  letters  read,  and  look, 
As  like  as  twenty  copies  of  one  book. 
They're  written  in  a  dainty,  spider  scrawl, 
To  *  darling,  precious  Kate,'  or  *  Fan,'  or  '  Moll.' 
The  '  dearest,  sweetest '  friend  they  ever  had. 
They  say  they  '  want  to  see  you,  oh,  so  bad!' 
Vow  they'll  'forget  you,  never,  never ,  oh!' 
And  then  they  tell  about  a  splendid  beau — 
A  lovely  hat — a  charming  dress,  and  send 
A  little  scrap  of  this  to  every  friend. 
And  then  to  close,  for  lack  of  something  better, 
They  beg  you'll ;  read  and  burn  this  horrid  letter/  • 

He  watched  me,  smiling.     He  was  prone  to  vex 

And  hector  me  with  flings  upon  my  sex. 

He  liked,  he  said,  to  have  me  flash  and  frown, 

So  he  could  tease  me,  and  then  laugh  me  down. 

My  storms  of  wrath  amused  him  very  much: 

He  liked  to  see  me  go  off  at  a  touch ; 

Anger  became  me — made  my  color  rise, 

And  gave  an  added  luster  to  my  eyes. 

So  he  would  talk — and  so  he  watched  me  now, 

To  see  the  hot  flush  mantle  cheek  and  brow. 

Instead,  I  answered  coolly,  with  a  smile, 
Felling  a  seam  with  utmost  care,  meanwhile. 


10  MATJBINB. 

<%  The  caustic  tongue  of  Vivian  Dangerfield 
Is  barbed  as  ever,  for  my  sex,  this  morn. 
Still  unconvinced,  no  smallest  point  I  yield. 
Woman  I  love,  and  trust,  despite  your  scorn. 
There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say?    "Well,  yes! 
Your  statements  usually  hold  more  or  less. 
Some  women  write  weak  letters — (some  men  do;) 
Some  make  professions,  knowing  them  untrue. 
And  woman's  friendship,  in  the  time  of  need, 
I  own,  too  often  proves  a  broken  reed. 
But  I  believe,  and  ever  will  contend, 
Woman  can  be  a  sister  woman's  friend, 
Giving  from  out  her  large  heart's  bounteous  store 
A  living  love — claiming  to  do  no  more 
Than,  through  and  by  that  love,  she  knows  she  can; 
And  living  by  her  professions,  like  a  man. 
And  such  a  tie,  true  friendship's  silken  tether, 
Binds  Helen  Trevor's  heart  and  mine  together. 
I  love  her  for  her  beauty,  meekness,  grace ; 
For  her  white  lily  soul  and  angel  face. 
She  loves  me,  for  my  greater  strength,  may  be; 
Loves  —  and   would    give   her    heart's    best   blood 

for  me. 

And  I,  to  save  her  from  a  pain,  or  cross, 
Would  suffer  any  sacrifice  or  loss. 
Such  can  be  woman's  friendship  for  another. 
Could  man  give  more,  or  ask  more  fro  in  a  brother?" 

I  paused:  and  Vivian  leaned  his  massive  head 
Against  the  pillar  of  the  portico, 


MAURINE.  11 

Smiled  his  slow,  skeptic  smile,  then  laughed,  and 

said: 

Nay,  surely  not — if  what  you  say  be  so. 
You've  made  a  statement,  but  no  proof's  at  hand. 
Wait — do  not  flash  your  eyes  so!     Understand 
I  think  you  quite  sincere  in  what  you  say: 
You  love  your  friend,  and  she  loves  you,  to-day; 
But  friendship  is  not  friendship  at  the  best 
Till  circumstances  put  it  to  the  test. 
Man's,  less  demonstrative,  stands  strain  and  tear, 
While  woman's,  half  profession,  fails  to  wear. 
Two  women  love  each  other  passing  well — 
Say  Helen  Trevor  and  Maurine  La  Pelle, 
Just  for  example. 

Let  them  daily  meet 

At  ball  and  concert,  in  the  church  and  street, 
They  kiss  and  coo,  they  visit,  chat,  caress; 
Their  love  increases,  rather  than  grows  less; 
And  all  goes  well,  till  '  Helen  dear '  discovers 
That  'Maurine  darling'  wins  too  many  lovers. 


And  then  her '  precious  friend,'  her  '  pet,'  her '  sweet,' 
Becomes  a  '  minx,'  a  '  creature  all  deceit.' 
Let  Helen  smile  too  oft  on  Maurine's  beaux, 
Or  wear  more  stylish  or  becoming  clothes, 
Or  sport  a  hat  that  has  a  longer  feather — 
And  lo!  the  strain  has  broken  '  friendship's  tether.' 
Maurine's  sweet  smile  becomes  a  frown  or  pout; 
4  She's  just  begun  to  find  that  Helen  out.' 
The  breach  grows  wider — anger  fills  each  heart; 


12  MAURIKE. 

They  drift  asunder,  whom  •  but  death  could  part.' 
You  shake  your  head?    Oh,  well,  we'll  never  know! 
It  is  not  likely  Fate  will  test  you  so. 
You'll  live,  and  love;  and,  meeting  twice  a  year, 
While  life  shall  last,  you'll  hold  each  other  dear. 
I  pray  it  may  be  so;  it  were  not  best 
To  shake  your  faith  in  woman  by  the  test. 
Keep  your  belief,  and  nurse  it  while  you  can. 
I've  faith  in  woman's  friendship  too — for  man! 
They're  true  as  steel,  as  mothers,  friends,  and  wives: 
And  that's  enough  to  bless  us  all  our  lives. 
That  man's  a  selfish  fellow,  and  a  bore, 
Who  is  unsatisfied,  and  asks  for  more." 

"But  there  is  need  of  more!  "  I  here  broke  in. 

"I  hold  that  woman  guilty  of  a  sin, 
"Who  would  not  cling  to,  and  defend  another, 
As  nobly  as  she  would  stand  by  a  brother. 
Who  would  not  suffer  for  a  sister's  sake, 
And.  were  there  need  to  prove  her  friendship,  make 

'Most  any  sacrifice,  nor  count  the  cost. 
Who  would  not  do  this  fur  a  friend  is  lost 
To  every  nobler  principle." 

'•  Shame,  shame! " 

Cried  Vivian,  laughing,  '•  for  you  now  defame 
The  whole  sweet  sex;  since  there's  not  one  would  do 
The  thing  you  name,  nor  would  I  want  her  to. 
I  love  the  sex.     My  mother  was  a  woman — 
1  hope  my  wife  will  be,  and  wholly  human. 
And  if  she  wants  to  make  some  sacrifice, 
I'll  think  her  far  more  sensible  and  wise 


MA  URINE.  13 

To  let  her  husband  reap  the  benefit, 
Instead  of  some  old  maid  or  senseless  chit. 
Selfish?     Of  course!     I  hold  all  love  is  so: 
And  I  shall  love  my  wife  right  well,  I  know. 
Now  there's  a  point  regarding  selfish  love, 
You  thirst  to  argue  with  me,  and  disprove. 
But  since  these  cosy  hours  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  all  our  meetings  broken  in  upon, 
No  more  of  these  rare  moments  must  be  spent 
In  vain  discussions,  or  in  argument. 
I  wish  Miss  Trevor  was  in — Jericho! 
(You  see  the  selfishness  begins  to  show.) 
She  wants  to  see  you? — So  do  I:  but  she 
"Will  gain  her  wish,  by  taking  you  from  me. 
'  Come  all  the  same?'  that  means  I'll  be  allowed 
To  realize  that  '  three  can  make  a  crowd.' 
I  do  not  like  to  feel  myself  de  trap. 
"With  two  girl  cronies  would  I  riot  be  so? 
My  ring  would  interrupt  some  private  chat. 
You'd  ask  me  in  and  take  my  cane  and  hat, 
And  speak  about  the  lovely  summer  day, 
And  think — 'The  lout!  I  wish  he'd  kept  away.' 
Miss  Trevor'd  smile,  but  just  to  hide  a  pout 
And  count  the  moments  till  I  was  shown  out. 
And,  while  I  twirled  my  thumbs,  I  should  sit  wishing 
That  I  had  gone  oft'  hunting  birds,  or  fishing. 
No,  thanks,  Maurine!     The  iron  hand  of  Fate, 
(Or  otherwise  Miss  Trevor's  dainty  fingers,) 
Will  bar  my  entrance  into  Eden's  gate; 
A  nd  I  shall  be  like  some  poor  soul  that  lingers 


14  MA  URINE. 

At  heaven's  portal,  paying  the  price  of  sin, 
Yet  hoping  to  be  pardoned  and  let  in." 

He  looked  so  melancholy  sitting  there, 

I  laughed  outright.     '•  How  well  you  act  a  part; 

You  look  the  very  picture  of  despair! 

You've  missed  your  calling,  sir!  suppose  you  start 

Upon  a  starring  tour,  and  carve  your  name 

With  Booth's  and  Barrett's  on  the  heights  of  Fame. 

But  now,  tabooing  nonsense,  I  shall  send 

For  you  to  help  me  entertain  my  friend, 

Unless  you  come  without  it.     'Cronies?'     True, 

Wanting  our  '  private  chats'  as  cronies  do. 

And  we'll  take  those,  while  you  are  reading  Greek, 

Or  writing  4  Lines  to  Dora's  brow  '  or  '  cheek.' 

But  when  you  have  an  hour  or  two  of  leisure, 

Call  as  you  now  do,  and  afford  like  pleasure. 

For  never  yet  did  heaven's  sun  shine  on, 

Or  stars  discover,  that  phenomenon, 

In  any  country,  or  in  any  clime: 

Two  maids  so  bound,  by  ties  of  mind  and  heart, 

They  did  not  feel  the  heavy  weight  of  time 

In  weeks  of  scenes  wherein  no  man  took  part. 

God  made  the  sexes  to  associate: 

Nor  law  of  man,  nor  stern  decree  of  Fate, 

Can  ever  undo  what  His  hand  has  done, 

And,  quite  alone,  make  happy  either  one. 

My  Helen  is  an  only  child: — a  pet 

Of  loving  parents:  and  she  never  yet 

Has  been  denied  one  boon  for  which  she  pleaded. 

A  fragile  thing,  her  lightest  wish  was  heeded. 


MAURINE.  15 

Would  she  pluck  roses?  they  must  first  be  shorn, 
By  careful  hands,  of  every  hateful  thorn. 
And  loving  eyes  must  scan  the  pathway  where 
Her  feet  may  tread,  to  see  no  stones  are  there. 
She'll  grow  dull  here,  in  this  secluded  nook, 
Unless  you  aid  me  in  the  pleasant  task 
Of  entertaining.     Drop  in  with  your  book — 
Read,  talk,  sing  for  her  sometimes.     "What  I  ask, 
Do  once,  to  please  me:  then  there'll  be  no  need 
For  me  to  state  the  case  again,  or  plead. 
There's  nothing  like  a  woman's  grace  and  beauty 
To  waken  mankind  to  a  sense  of  duty." 

"  I  bow  before  the  mandate  of  my  queen: 
Your  slightest  wish  is  law,  Ma  Belle  Maurine," 
He  answered  smiling,  "  I'm  at  your  command; 
Point  but  one  lily  finger,  or  your  wand, 
And  you  will  find  a  willing  slave  obeying. 
There  goes  my  dinner  bell!     I  hear  it  saying 
I've  spent  two  hours  here,  lying  at  your  feet, 
Not  profitable,  maybe — surely  sweet. 
All  time  is  money:  now  were  I  to  measure 
The  time  I  spend  here  by  its  solid  pleasure, 
And  that  were  coined  in  dollars,  then  I've  laid 
Each  day  a  fortune  at  your  feet,  fair  maid. 
There  goes  that  bell  again!  I'll  say  good-bye, 
Or  clouds  will  shadow  my  domestic  sky. 
I'll  come  again,  as  you  would  have  me  do, 
And  see  your  friend,  while  she  is  seeing  you. 
That's  like  by  proxy  being  at  a  feast; 
Unsatisfactory,  to  say  the  least." 


16  MAURINE. 

He  drew  his  fine  shape  up,  and  trod  the  land 
With  kingly  grace.     Passing  the  gate,  his  hand 
He  lightly  placed  the  garden  wall  upon, 
Leaped  over  like  a  leopard,  and  was  gone. 

And,  going,  took  the  brightness  from  the  place, 
Yet  left  the  June  day  with  a  sweeter  grace, 
And  my  young  soul  so  steeped  in  happy  dreams, 
Heaven  itself  seemed  shown  to  me  in  gleams. 

There  is  a  time  with  lovers,  when  the  heart 

First  slowly  rouses  from  its  dreamless  sleep, 

To  all  the  tumult  of  a  passion  life, 

Ere  yet  have  wakened  jealousy  and  strife. 

Just  as  a  young,  untutored  child  will  start 

Out  of  a  long  hour's  slumber,  sound  and  deep. 

And  lie  and  smile  with  rosy  lips,  and  cheeks, 

In  a  sweet,  restful  trance,  before  it  speaks. 

A  time  when  yet  no  word  the  spell  has  broken, 

Save  what  the  heart  unto  the  soul  has  spoken, 

In  quickened  throbs,' and  sighs  but  half-suppressed. 

A  time  when  that  sweet  truth,  all  unconfessed, 

Gives  added  fragrance  to  the  summer  flowers, 

A  golden  glory  to  the  passing  hours, 

A  hopeful  beauty  to  the  plainest  face,  , 

And  lends  to  life  a  new  and  tender  grace. 

i 
When  the   full  heart  has  climbed  the  heights  of 

bliss, 

And,  smiling,  looks  back  o'er  the  golden  past, 
I  think  it  finds  no  sweeter  hour  than  this 
In  all  love-life.     For,  later,  when  the  last 


MAUKINE.  1? 

Translucent  drop  o'erflows  the  cup  of  joy, 
And  love,  more  mighty  than  the  heart's  control, 
Surges  in  words  of  passion  from  the  soul, 
And  vows  are  asked  and  given,  shadows  rise 
Like  mists  before  the  sun  in  noonday  skies, 
Vague  fears,  that  prove  the  brimming  cup's  alloy: 
A  dread  of  change — the  crowning  moment's  curse, 
Since  what  is  perfect,  change  but  renders  worse: 
A  vain  desire  to  cripple  Time,  who  goes 
Bearing  our  joys  away,  and  bringing  woes. 
And  later,  doubts  and  jealousies  awaken, 
And  plighted  hearts  are  tempest-tossed,  and  shaken. 
Doubt  sends  a  test,  that  goes  a  step  too  far. 
A  wound  is  made,  that,  healing,  leaves  a  scar, 
Or  one  heart,  full  with  love's  sweet  satisfaction, 
Thinks  truth  once  spoken  always  understood, 
While  one  is  pining  for  the  tender  action 
And  whispered  word  by  which,  of  old,  'twas  wooed. 

But  this  blest  hour,  in  love's  glad,  golden  day, 
Is  like  the  dawning,  ere  the  radiant  ray 
Of  glowing  Sol  has  burst  upon  the  eye, 
But  yet  is  heralded  in  earth  and  sky, 
Warm  with  its  fervor,  mellow  with  its  light, 
While  Care  still  slumbers  in  the  arms  of  night. 
But  Hope,  awake,  hears  happy  birdlings  sing, 
And  thinks  of  all  a  summer  day  may  bring. 

In  this  sweet  calm,  my  young  heart  lay  at  rest, 
Filled  with  a  blissful  sense  of  peace;  nor  guessed 
That  sullen  clouds  were  gathering  in  the  skies 
To  hide  the  glorious  sun,  ere  it  should  rise. 


18  MATJRINE. 


PART  II. 

To  little  birds  that  never  tire  of  humming 
About  the  garden,  in  the  sn miner  weather, 
Aunt  Ruth  compared  us,  after  Helen's  coming, 
As  we  two  roamed,  or  sat  and  talked  together. 
Twelve  months  apart,  we  had  so  much  to  say 
Of  school  days  gone — and  time  since  passed  away; 
Ot  that  old  friend,  and  this;  of  what  we'd  done; 
Of  how  our  separate  paths  in  life  had  run; 
Of  what  we  would  do.  in  the  coming  years; 
Of  plans  and  castles,  hopes  and  dreams  and  fears. 
All  these,  and  more,  as  soon  as  we  found  speech, 
We  touched  upon,  and  skimmed  from  this  tc  that 
But  at  the  first,  each  only  gazed  on  each, 
And,  dumb  with  joy,  that  did  not  need  a  voice 
Like  lesser  joys,  to  say,  "  Lo!  I  rejoice," 
With  smiling  eyes  and  clasping  hands  we  sat 
Wrapped   in  that  peace,  felt  but  with  those 

dear, 

Contented  just  to  know  each  other  near. 
But  when  this  silent  eloquence  gave  place 
To  words,  'twas  like  the  rising  of  a  flood 

o 

Above  a  dam.     We  sat  there,  face  to  face. 
And  let  our  talk  glide  on  where'er  it  would, 
Speech  never  halting  in  its  speed  or  zest, 
Save  when  our  rippling  laughter  let  it  rest; 
Just  as  a  stream  will  sometimes  pause  and  play 
About  a  bubbling  spring,  then  dash  away. 


MAURINE.  19 

No  wonder,  then,  the  third  day's  sun  was  nigh 

Up  to  the  zenith  when  my  friend  and  I 

Opened  our  eyes  from  slumber  long  and  deep: 

Nature  demanding  recompense  for  hours 

Spent  in  the  portico,  among  the  flowers. 

Halves  of  two  nights  we  should  have  spent  in  sleep. 

So  this  third  day,  we  breakfasted  at  one: 
Then  walked  about  the  garden  in  the  sun, 
Hearing  the  thrushes  and  the  robins  sing, 
And  looking  to  see  what  buds  were  opening. 

The  clock  chimed  three,  and  we  yet  strayed  at  will 
About  the  yard  in  morning  dishabille, 
When  Aunt  Ruth  came,  with  apron  o'er  her  head, 
Holding  a  letter  in  her  hand,  and  said, 

"  Here  is  a  note,  from  Vivian  I  opine; 
At  least  his  servant  brought  it.     And  now,  girls, 
You  may  think  this  is  no  concern  of  mine, 
But  in  my  day  young  ladies  did  not  go, 
Till  almost  bed-time  roaming  to  and  fro 
In  morning  wrappers,  and  with  tangled  curls. 
The  very  pictures  of  forlorn  distress. 

'Tis  three  o'clock,  and  time  for  you  to  dress. 
Come!  read  your  note  and  hurry  in,  Maurine, 
And  make  yourself  fit  object  to  be  seen." 

Helen  was  bending  o'er  an  almond  bush, 
And  ere  she  looked  up  I  had  read  the  note, 
And  calmed  my  heart,  that,  bounding,  sent  a  flush 
To  brow  and  cheek,  at  sight  of  aught  he  wrote. 


•40  MAtTBINI. 

"  Ma  Belle  Maurine: "  (so  Vivian's  billet  ran,) 
"•  Is  it  not  time  I  saw  your  cherished  guest? 
4  Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  young  man,' 
Banished  from  all  that  makes  existence  blest. 
I'm  dying  to  see — your  friend;  and  I  will  come 
And  pay  respects,  hoping  you'll  be  at  home 
To-night  at  eight.     Expectantly,  Y.  D." 

Inside  my  belt  I  slipped  the  billet,  saying, 
"  Helen,  go  make  yourself  most  fair  to  see: 
Quick!  hurry  now!  no  time  for  more  delaying! 
In  just  five  hours  a  caller  will  be  here, 
And  you  must  look  your  prettiest,  my  dear! 
Begin  your  toilet  right  away.     I  know 
How  long  it  takes  you  to  arrange  each  bow — 
To  twist  each  curl,  and  loop  your  skirts  aright. 
And  you  must  prove  you  are  aufait  to-night, 
And  make  a  perfect  toilet:  for  our  caller 
Is  man,  and  critic,  poet,  artist,  scholar, 
And  views  with  eyes  of  all." 

"Oh,  oh!  Maurine," 

Cried  Helen  with  a  well-feigned  look  of  fear, 
"  You've  frightened  me  so  I  shall  not  appear: 
I'll  hide  away,  refusing  to  be  seen 
By  such  an  ogre.     Woe  is  me!  bereft 
Of  all  my  friends,  my  peaceful  home  I've  left. 
And  strayed  away  into  the  dreadful  wood 
To  meet  the  fate  of  poor  Red  Riding  Hood. 
No,  Maurine,  no!  you've  given  me  such  a  fright, 
I'll  not  go  near  your  ugly  wolf  to-night." 


MAURINE.  *1 

Meantime  we'd  left  the  garden;  and  I  stood 

In  Helen's  room,  where  she  had  thrown  hersell 

Upon  a  couch,  and  lay,  a  winsome  elf, 

Pouting  and  smiling,  cheek  upon  her  arm, 

Not  in  the  least  a  portrait  of  alarm. 

Now   sweet!"  I  coaxed,    and    knelt  by    her,    "be 

good ! 

Go  curl  your  hair;  and  please  your  own  Maurine, 
By  putting  on  that  lovely  grenadine. 
Not  wolf,  nor  ogre,  neither  Caliban, 
Nor  Mephistopheles,  you'll  meet  to-night, 
But  what  the  ladies  call  '  a  nice  young  man  '! 
Yet  one  worth  knowing — strong  with  health  and 

might 

Of  perfect  manhood;  gifted,  noble,  wise; 
Moving  among  his  kind  with  loving  eyes, 
And  helpful  hand;  progressive,  brave,  refined, 
After  the  image  of  his  Maker's  mind." 

^  Now,  now,  Maurine!  "  cried  Helen,  "  I  believe 
It  is  your  lover  coming  here  this  eve. 
Why  have  you  never  written  of  him,  pray? 
Is  the  day  set? — and  when?     Say,  Maurine,  say!" 

Had  I  betrayed  by  some  too  fervent  word 

The  secret  love  that  all  my  being  stirred? 

My  lover?     Ay!     My  heart  proclaimed  him  so: 

But  lirst  his  lips  must  win  the  sweet  confession, 

Ere  even  Helen  be  allowed  to  know. 

I  must  straightway  erase  the  slight  impression 

Made  by  the  words  just  uttered. 


22  MAURIXE. 

"Foolish  child!" 

1  gayly  cried,  "your  fancy's  straying  wild. 
J»ist  let  a  girl  of  eighteen  hear  the  name 
Of  maid  and  youth  uttered  about  one  time, 
And  off  her  fancy  goes,  at  break-neck  pace, 
Defying  circumstances,  reason,  space — 
And  straightway  builds  romances  so  sublime 
They  put  all  Shakespeare's  dramas  to  the  shame. 
This  Vivian  Dangerfield  is  neighbor,  friend 
And  kind  companion;  bringing  books  and  flowers, 
And,  by  his  thoughtful  actions  without  end, 
Helping  me  pass  some  otherwise  long  hours; 
But  he  has  never  breathed  a  word  of  love. 
If  you  still  doubt  me,  listen  while  I  prove 
My  statement  by  the  letter  that  he  wrote. 

*  Dying  to  meet — my  friend!'   (she  could  not  see 
The  dash  between  that  meant  so  much  to  me.) 

'  Will  come  this  eve.  at  eight,  and  hopes  we  may 
Be  in  to  greet  him.'     Now  I  think  you'll  say 
'T  is  not  much  like  a  lover's  tender  note/' 

We  laugh,  we  jest,  not  meaning  what  we  say; 

"We  hide  our    thoughts,    by    light    words    lightly 

spoken, 

And  pass  on  heedless,  till  we  find  one  day 
They've  bruised  our  hearts,  or  left  some  other  broken. 

I  sought  my  room,  and  trilling  some  blithe  air, 
Opened  my  wardrobe,  wondering  what  to  wear. 
Momentous  question!  femininely  human! 
More  than  all  others,  vexing  mind  of  woman, 


MAURINE.  23 

Since  that  sad  day,  when  in  her  discontent, 
To  search  for  leaves,  our  fair  first  mother  went. 
All  undecided  what  I  should  put  on, 
At  length  I  made  selection  of  a  lawn — 
White,  with  a  tiny  pink  vine  overrun: — 
My  simplest  robe,  but  Yivian's  favorite  one. 
And  placing  a  single  flowret  in  my  hair, 
I  crossed  the  hall  to  Helen's  chamber,  where 
I  found  her  with  her  fair  locks  all  let  down, 
Brushing  the  kinks  out,  with  a  pretty  frown. 
'Twas  like  a  picture,  or  a  pleasing  play, 
To  watch  her  make  her  toilet.     She  would  stand, 
And  turn  her  head  first  this,  and  then  that  way, 
Trying  effect  of  ribbon,  bow  or  band. 
Then  she  would  pick  up  something  else,  and  curve 
Her  lovely  neck,  with  cunning,  bird-like  grace, 
And  watch  the  mirror  while  she  put  it  on, 
With  such  a  sweetly  grave  and  thoughtful  face; 
And  then  to  view  it  all  would  sway,  and  swerve 
Her  lithe  young  body,  like  a  graceful  swan. 

Helen  was  over  medium  height,  and  slender 
Even  to  frailty.     Her  great,  wistful  eyes 
Were  like  the  deep  blue  of  autumnal  skies; 
And  through  them  looked  her  soul,  large,  loving-, 

tender. 

Her  long,  light  hair  was  lustcrless,  except 
Upon  the  ends,  where  burnished  sunbeams  slept, 
And  on  the  earlocks;  and  she  looped  the  curls 
Back  with  a  shell  comb,  studded  thick  with  pearls, 


34  MAURINE. 

Costly  yet  simple.     Her  pale  loveliness, 
That  night,  was  heightened  by  her  rich,  black  dress, 
That  trailed  behind  her,  leaving  half  in  sight 
ller  taper  arms,  and  shoulders  marble  white. 

I  was  not  tall  as  Helen,  and  my  face 
Was  shaped  and  colored  like  my  grandsire's  race; 
For  through  his  veins  my  own  received  the  warm, 
Red  blood  of  southern  France,  which  curved  my 

form, 

And  glowed  upon  my  cheek  in  crimson  dyes, 
And  bronzed  my  hair,  and  darkled  in  my  eyes. 
And  as  the  morning  trails  the  skirts  of  night, 
And  dusky  night  puts  on  the  garb  of  morn, 
And  walk  together  when  the  day  is  born, 
So  we  two  glided  down  the  hall  and  stair, 

CD 

Arm  clasping  arm.  into  the  parlor,  where 
Sat  Vivian,  bathed  in  sunset's  gorgeous  light. 
He  rose  to  greet  us.     Oh !  his  form  was  grand ; 
And  he  possessed  that  power,  strange,  occult, 
Called  magnetism,  lacking  better  word, 
"Which  moves  the  world,  achieving  great  result 
Where  genius  fails  completely.     Touch  his  hanc, 
It  thrilled  through  all  your  being — meet  his  eye. 
And  you  were  moved,  yet  knew  not  how,  or  why. 
Let  him  but  rise,  you  felt  the  air  was  stirred 
By  an  electric  current. 

This  strange  force 
Is  mightier  than  genius.     Rightly  used, 


MAURINE.  2 

It  leads  to  grand  achievements;  all  things  yield 
Before  its  mystic  presence,  and  its  field 
Is  broad  as  earth  and  heaven.     But  abused, 
It  sweeps  like  a  poison  simoon  on  its  course 
Bearing  miasma  in  its  scorching  breath, 
And  leaving  all  it  touches  struck  with  death. 

Far-reaching  science  shall  yet  tear  away 
The  mystic  garb  that  hides  it  from  the  day, 
And  drag  it  forth  and  bind  it  with  its  laws, 
And  make  it  serve  the  purposes  of  men, 
Guided  by  common  sense  and  reason.     Then 
We'll  hear  no  more  of  seance,  table-rapping, 
And  all  that  trash,  o'er  which  the  world  is  gaping, 
Lost  in  effect,  while  science  seeks  the  cause. 

Vivian  was  not  conscious  of  his  power: 

Or,  if  he  was,  knew  not  its  full  extent. 

He  knew  his  glance  would  make  a  wild  beast  cower, 

And  yet  he  knew  not  that  his  large  eyes  sent 

Into  the  heart  of  woman  the  same  thrill 

That  made  the  lion  servant  of  his  will. 

And  even  strong  men  felt  it. 

He  arose, 

Reached  forth  his  hand,  and  in  it  clasped  my  own, 
"While  I  held  Helen's;  and  he  spoke  some  word 
Of  pleasant  greeting  in  his  low, round  tone, 
Unlike  all  other  voices  I  have  heard. 
Just  as  the  white  cloud,  at  the  sunrise,  glows 


26  MAURINE. 

With  roseate  colors,  so  the  pallid  hue 
Of  Helen's  cheek,  like  tinted  sea-shells  grew. 
Through  mine,  his  hand  caused  hers  to  tremble:  siu; 
Was  the  all-mast'ring  magic  of  his  touch. 


•&1 


Then  we  sat  down,  and  talked  about  the  weather, 

The  neighborhood — some  author's  last  new  book. 

But,  when  I  could,  I  left  the  two  together 

To  make  acquaintance,  saying  I  must  look 

After  the  chickens — my  especial  care; 

And  ran  away,  and  left  them,  laughing,  there. 

Knee-deep,  through  clover,  to  the  poplar  grove, 
I  waded,  where  my  pets  were  wont  to  rove: 
And  there  I  found  the  foolish  mother  hen 
Brooding  her  chickens  underneath  a  tree, 
An  easy  prey  for  foxes.     "  Chick-a-dee." 
Quoth  I,  while  reaching  for  the  downy  thing> 
That,  chirping,  peeped  from  out  the  mother-wings, 
"  How  very  human  is  your  folly!     When 
There  waits  a  haven,  pleasant,  bright,  and  warm. 
And  one  to  lead  you  thither  from  the  storm 
And  lurking  dangers,  yet  you  turn  away. 
And,  thinking  to  be  your  own  protector,  stray 
Into  the  open  jaws  of  death:  for,  see! 
An  owl  is  sitting  in  this  very  tree 
Yon  thought  safe  shelter.     Go  now  to  your  pen." 
And.  followed  by  the  clucking,  clamorous  hen, 
So  like  the  human  mother  here  again, 


MAURINE.  27 

Moaning  because  a  strong,  protecting  arm 
Would  shield  her  little  ones  from  cold  and  harm, 
I  carried  back  my  garden  hat  brimful 
Of  chirping  chickens,  like  white  balls  of  wool, 
And  snugly  housed  them. 

And  just  theti  I  heard 

A  sound  like  gentle  winds  among  the  trees, 
Or  pleasant  waters  in  the  Summer,  stirred 
And  set  in  motion  by  a  passing  breeze. 
'T  was  Helen  singing:  and,  as  I  drew  near, 
Another  voice,  a  tenor  full  and  clear, 
Mingled  with  hers,  as  murmuring  streams  unite, 
And  flow  on  stronger  in  their  wedded  might. 

It  was  a  way  of  Helen's,  not  to  sing 

The  songs  that  other  people  sang.     She  took 

Sometimes  an  extract  from  an  ancient  book; 

Again  some  floating,  fragmentary  thing 

And  such  she  fitted  to  old  melodies, 

Or  «Ue  composed  the  music.     One  of  these 

She  sang  that  night;  and  Vivian  caught  the  strain, 

And  joined  her  in  the  chorus,  or  refrain. 

SONG. 

O  thou,  mine  other,  stronger  part! 

Whom  yet  I  cannot  hear,  or  see, 
Come  thou,  and  take  this  loving  heart, 

That  longs  to  yield  its  all  to  thee, 

I  call  mine  ovrn— Oh,  come  to  me! 

Love,  answer  back,  I  come  to  thee, 

I  conie  to  thee. 


28  MAUKINE. 

This  hungry  heart,  so  warm,  so  large, 

Is  far  too  great  a  care  for  me. 
I  have  growu  weary  of  the  charge 

I  keep  so  sacredly  for  thee. 

Coine  thou,  and  take  my  heart  from  me. 

Love,  answer  back,  I  come  to  thee, 

I  come  to  thee. 

I  am  aweary,  waiting  here 

For  one  who  tarries  long  from  me. 
O !  art  thou  far,  or  art  thou  near  ? 

And  must  I  still  be  sad  for  thee? 

Or  wilt  thou  straightway  come  to  me  ? 

Love,  answer,  I  am  near  to  thee, 

I  come  to  thee 

The  melody,  so  full  of  plaintive  chords, 
Sobbed  into  silence — echoing  down  the  strings 
Like  voice  of  one  who  walks  from  us,  and  sings. 
Vivian  had  leaned  upon  the  instrument 
The  while  they  sang.     But,  as  he  spoke  those  words. 
''Love,  I  am  near  to  thee,  I  come  to  thee," 
He  turned  his  grand  head  slowly  round,  and  bent 
His  lustrous,  soulful,  speaking  gaze  on  me. 
And  my  young  heart,  eager  to  own  its  king, 
Sent  to  my  eyes  a  great,  glad,  trustful  light 
Of  love  and  faith,  and  hung  upon  my  cheek 
Hope's  rose-hued  flag.     There  was  no  need  to  speak. 
I  crossed  the  room,  and  knelt  by  Helen.     "  Sing 
That  song  you  sang  a  fragment  of  one  night, 
Out  on  the  porch,  beginning  '  Praise  me  not,'  " 
I  whispered:  and  her  sweet  and  plaintive  tone 
Rose,  low  and  tender,  as  if  she  had  caught 


MAURINE.  29 

From  some  sad  passing  breeze,  and  made  her  own, 
The  echo  of  the  wind-harp's  sighing  strain, 
Or  the  soft  music  of  the  falling  rain. 

SONG. 

O  praise  mo  not  with  your  lips,  dear  one! 

Though  your  tender  words  I  prize. 
But  dearer  by  far  is  the  soulful  gaze 

Of  your  eyes,  your  beautiful  eyes, 
Your  tender,  loving  eyes. 

O  chide  me  not  with  your  lips,  dear  one! 

Though  I  cause  your  bosom  sighs. 
You  can  make  repentance  deeper  far 

By  your  sad,  reproving  eyes, 

Your  sorrowful,  troubled  eyes. 

Words,  at  the  best,  are  but  hollow  sounds ; 

Above,  in  the  beaming  skies, 
The  constant  stars  say  never  a  word, 

But  only  smile  with  their  eyes — 

Smile  on  with  their  lustrous  eyes. 

Then  breathe  no  vow  with  your  lips,  dear  one; 

On  the  winged  wind  speech  flics. 
But  I  read  the  truth  of  your  noble  heart 

In  your  soulful,  speaking  eyes — 

In  your  deep  and  beautiful  eyes. 

The  twilight  darkened  'round  us,  in  the  room, 
While  Helen  sang;  and,  in  the  gathering  gloom, 
Vivian  reached  out,  and  took  my  hand  in  his, 
And  held  it  so;  while  Helen  made  the  air 
Languid  with  music.     Then  a  step  drew  near, 
And  voice  of  Aunt  Ruth  broke  the  spell: 

'k  Dear!  dear! 


30  MAUKINE. 

Why  Maurie,  Helen,  children!  how  is  this? 
I  hear  you,  but  you  have  no  light  in  there. 
Your  room  is  dark  as  Egypt.     What  a  way 
For  folks  to  visit! — Maurie,  go,  I  pray, 
And  order  lamps." 

And  so  there  came  a  liglit, 
And  all  the  sweet  dreams  hovering  around 
The  twilight  shadows  flitted  in  affright: 
Anci,  e'en  the  music  had  a  harsher  sound. 

In  pleasant  converse  passed  an  hour  away: 

And  Vivian  planned  a  picnic  for  next  day — 

A  drive  the  next,  and  rambles  without  end, 

That  he  might  help  me  entertain  my  friend. 

And  then    he  rose,   bowed  low,    and  passed   from 

sight, 

Like  some  srreat  star  that  drops  out  from  the  night; 
And  Helen  watched  him  through  the  shadows  go, 
And  turned  and  said,  her  voice  subdued  and  lu\v, 
"How  tall  he  is!  in  all  my  life,  Maurine, 
A  grander  inau  I  never  yet  have  seen." 


MATT  KIN  E.  31 


PART  III. 

One  golden  twelfth-part  of  a  checkered  year; 
One  summer  month,  of  sunlight,  moonlight,  mirth, 
With  not  a  hint  of  shadows  lurking  near, 
Or  storm-clouds  brewing. 

'T  was  a  royal  day : 

Voluptuous  July  held  her  lover,  Earth, 
With  her  warm  arms,  upon  her  glowing  breast, 
And  twined  herself  about  him,  as  lie  lay 
Smiling  and  panting  in  his  dream-stirred  rest. 
She  bound  him  with  her  limbs  of  perfect  grace, 
And  hid  him  with  her  trailing  robe  of  green, 
And  wound   him  in  her  long  hair's  shimmering 

sheen. 
And  rained  her  ardent  kisses  on  his  face. 

Through  the  glad  glory  of  the  summer  land 
Helen  and  I  went  wandering,  hand  in  hand. 
In  winding  paths,  hard  by  the  ripe  wheat-field, 
White  with  the  promise  of  a  bounteous  yield, 
Across  the  late  shorn  meadow — down  the  hill, 
Red  with  the  tigev-lily  blossoms,  till 
We  stood  upon  the  borders  of  the  lake, 
That  like  a  precty,  placid  infant,  slept 
Low  at  its  base:  and  little  ripples  crept 
Along  its  surface,  just  as  dimples  chase 
Each  other  o'er  an  infant's  sleeping  face. 
3 


'62  MAUKINE. 

Helen  in  idle  hours  had  learned  to  make 

A  thousand  pretty,  feminine  knick-knacks: 

For  brackets,  ottomans,  and  toilet  stands — 

Labor  just  suited  to  her  dainty  hands. 

That  morning  she  had  been  at  work  in  wax, 

Molding  a  wreath  of  flowers  for  my  room, — 

Taking  her  patterns  from  the  living  blows, 

In  all  their  dewy  beauty  and  sweet  bloom, 

Fresh  from  my  garden.     Fuchsia,  tulip,  rose, 

And  trailing  ivy,  grew  beneath  her   touch, 

Resembling  the  living  plants  as  much 

As  life  is  copied  in  the  form  of  death: 

These  lacking  but  the  perfume,  and  that,   breath. 

And  now  the  wreath  was  all  completed,  save 
The  mermaid  blossom  of  all  flowerdom, 
A  water-lily,  dripping  from  the  wave. 
And  't  was  in  search  of  it  that  we  had  come 
Down  to  the  lake,  and  wandered  on  the  beach, 
To  see  if  any  lilies  grew  in  reach. 
Some  broken  stalks,  where  flowers  late  had  been; 
Some  buds,  with  all  their  beauties  folded  in, 
We  found,  but  not  the  treasure  that  we  sought. 
And  then  we  turned  our  footsteps  to  the  spot 
Where,  all  impatient  of  its  chain,  my  boat, 
'"  The  Swan,"  rocked,  asking  to  be  set  afloat. 
It  was  a  dainty  row-boat — strong,  yet  light; 
Each  side  a  swan  was  painted  snowy  white: 
A  present  from  my  uncle,  just  before 
He  sailed,  with  Death,  to  that  mysterious  strand, 


MAURINE.  33 

Where  freighted  ships  go  sailing  evermore, 

But  none  return  to  tell  us  of  the  land. 

I  freed  the  "  Swan,"  and  slowly  rowed  about, 

Wherever  sea- weeds,  grass,  or  green  leaves  lifted 

Their  tips  above  the  water.     So  we  drifted, 

While  Helen,  opposite,  leaned  idly  out 

And  watched  for  lilies  in  the  waves  below, 

And  softly  crooned  some  sweet  and  dreamy  air, 

That  soothed  me  like  a  mother's  lullabies. 

I  dropped  the  oars,  and  closed  my  sun-kissed  eyes, 

And  let  the  boat  go  drifting  here  and  there. 

Oh,  happy  day!  the  last  of  that  brief  time 

Of  thoughtless  youth,  when  all   the  world   seems 

bright, 

Ere  that  disguised  angel  men  call  Woe 
Leads  the  sad  heart  through  valleys  dark  as  night, 
Up  to  the  heights  exalted  and  sublime. 
On  each  blest,  happy  moment,  I  am  fain 
To  linger  long,  ere  I  pass  on  to  pain 
And  sorrow  that  succeeded. 

From  day-dreams, 

As  golden  as  the  summer  noontide's  beams, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  voice  that  cried: 
•Strange  ship,  ahoy!  Fair  frigate,  whither  bound?'' 
And,  starting  up,  I  cast  my  gaze  around, 
And  saw  a  sail-boat  o'er  the  water  glide 
Close  to  the  '"  Swan."  like  some  live  thing  of  grace; 
And-from  it  looked  the  glowing,  handsome  face 
Of  Vivian. 


34  MAURINE. 

"  Beauteous  sirens  of  the  sea, 
Come  sail  across  the  raging  main  with  m?J,  " 
He  laughed;  and  leaning,  drew  our  drifting  boat 
Beside  his  own.     "There,  now!  step  in!  "  lie  said, 
"  I'll  land  you  anywhere  you  want  to  go — 
My  boat  is  safer  far  than  yours,  I  know: 
And  much  more  pleasant  with  its  sails  all  spread. 
The  Swan?     We'll  take  the  oars,  and  let  it  float 
Ashore  at  leisure.     You,  Maurine,  sit  there- 
Miss  Helen  here.     Ye  gods  and  little  fishes! 
I've  reached  the  height  of  pleasure,  and  my  wishers. 
Adieu  despondency!  farewell  to  care!" 

'T  was  done  so  quickly:  that  was  Vivian's  "'ay. 

[Ie  did  not  wait  for  either  yea  or  nay. 

fie  Ljave  commands,  and  left  you  with  no  choice 

o  •' 

Bat  just  to  do  the  bidding  of  his  voice. 
[lis  rare,  kind  smile,  low  tones,  and  manly  face 
Lent  to  his  quick  imperiousness  a  grace 
And  winning  charm,  completely  stripping  it 
Of  what  might  otherwise  have  seemed  unfit. 

o 

Leaving  no  trace  of  tyranny,  but  just 

That  nameless  force  that  seemed  to  say,"  You  must.'' 

Suiting  its  pretty  title  of  kt  The  Dawn," 

(So    named,    he    said,  that  it  might    rhyme    witi 

"  Swan,") 

Vivian's  sail-boat,  was  carpeted  with  blue, 
While  all  its  sails  were  of  a  pale  rose  hue. 
The  daintiest  craft  that  flirted  with  the  breeze; 
A  poet's  fancy  in  an  hour  of  ease. 


MAURINE.  35 

Whatever  Vivian  had  was  of  the  best. 

His  room  was  like  some  Sultan's  in  the  East. 

His  board  was  always  spread  as  for  a  feast, 

Whereat,  each  meal,  he  was  both  host  and  guest. 

He  would  go  hungry  sooner  than  he'd  dine 

At  his  own  table  if  'twere  illy  set. 

He  so  loved  things  artistic  in  design — 

Order  and  beauty,  all  about  him.     Yet 

So  kind  he  was,  if  it  befell  his  lot 

To  dine  within  the  humble  peasant's  cot, 

He  made  it  seem  his  native  soil  to  be, 

And  thus  displayed  the  true  gentility. 

Under  the  rosy  banners  of  the  "  Dawn," 
Around  the  lake  we  drifted  on,  and  on. 
It  was  a  time  for  dreams,  and  not  for  speech. 
And  so  we  floated  on  in  silence,  each 
Weaving  the  fancies  suiting  such  a  day. 
Helen  leaned  idly  o'er  the  sail-boat's  side, 
,\nd  dipped  her  rosy  fingers  in  the  tide; 
And  I  among  the  cushions  half  reclined, 
Half  sat,  and  watched  the  fleecy  clouds  at  play, 
While  Vivian  with  his  blank-book,  opposite, 
In  which  he  seemed  to  either  sketch  or  write, 
Was  lost  in  inspiration  of  some  kind- 

No  time,  no  change,  no  scene,  can  e'er  efface 
My  mind's  impression  of  that  hour  and  place: 
It  stands  out  like  a  picture.     O'er  the  years, 
Black  with  their  robes  of  sorrow — veiled  with  tears, 


36  MA  URINE. 

Lying  with  all  their  lengthened  shapes  between, 
Untouched,  undimmed,  I  still  behold  that  scene. 
Just  as  the  last  of  Indian-summer  days, 
Replete  with  sunlight,  crowned  with  amber  haze, 
Followed  by  dark  and  desolate  December, 
Through  all  the  months  of  winter  we  remember. 

O 

The  sun  slipped  westward.     That  peculiar  change 
Which  creeps  into  the  air,  and  speaks  of  night 
While  yet  the  day  is  full  of  golden  light, 
We  felt  steal  o'er  us. 

Yivian  broke  the  spell 

Qf  dream-fraught  silence,  throwing  down  his  book: 
"  Young  ladies,  please  allow  me  to  arrange 
These  wraps  about  your  shoulders.     I  know  well 
The  fickle  nature  of  our  atmosphere, — 
Her  smile  swift  followed  by  a  frown  or  teaiv-- 
And  go  prepared  for  changes.     Now  you  look, 
Like — like — oh,  vvhere's  a  pretty  simile? 
Had  you  a  pocket  mirror  here  you'd  see 
How  well  my  native  talent  is  displayed 
In  shawling  you.     Red  on  the  brunette  maid; 
Blue  on  the  blonde — and  quite  without  design. 
(Oh,  where  is  that  comparison  of  mine?) 
Well — like  a  June  rose  and  a  violet  blue 
In  one  bouquet!     I  fancy  that  will  do. 
And  now  I  crave  your  patience  and  a  boon! 
Which  is  to  listen,  while  I  read  my  rhyme, 
A  floating  fancy  of  the  Summer  time. 
'T  is  neither  witty,  wonderful,  nor  wise, 


MAUKINE.  3? 


So  listen  kindly — but  don't  criticise 
My  maiden  effort  of  the  afternoon: 

"  If  all  the  ships  I  have  at  sea 
Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me. 
Ah,  well !  the  harbor  could  not  hold 
So  many  sails  as  there  would  be 
If  all  my  ships  came  in  from  sea. 

"  [f  half  my  ships  came  home  from  sea, 
A.nd  brought  their  precious  freight  to  me, 
A.h,  well !  I  should  have  wealth  as  great 
As  any  king  who  sits  in  state — 
So  rich  the  treasures  that  would  be 
In  half  my  ships  now  out  at  sea. 

"  If  just  one  ship  I  have  at  sea 
Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me, 
Ah,  well !  the  storm-clouds  then  might  frown: 
For  if  the  others  all  went  down 
Still  rich  and  proud  and  glad  I'd  be, 
If  that  one  ship  came  back  to  me. 

"  If  that  one  ship  went  down  at  sea, 
And  sill  the  others  came  to  me, 
Weighed  down  with  gems  and  wealth  untold, 
With  glory,  honors,  riches,  gold, 
The  poorest  soul  on  earth  I'd  be 
If  that  one  ship  came  not  to  me. 

"  O  skies  be  calm !  O  winds  blow  free — 
Blow  all  my  ships  safe  home  to  me. 
But  if  thou  sendest  some  a-wrack 
To  never  more  come  sailing  back, 
Send  any — all,  that  skim  the  sea, 
But  bring  my  love-ship  home  to  me." 


38  MAURINE, 

Helen  was  leaning  by  me.  and  her  head 
Rested  against  my  shoulder:  as  he  read, 
I  stroked  her  hair,  and  watched  the  fleecy  skies, 
And  when  he  finished,  did  not  turn  my  eyes. 
I  felt  too  happy  and  too  shy  to  meet 
His  gaze  just  then.     I  said,  u'Tis  very  sweet, 
And  suits  the  day;  does  it  not,  Helen,  dear?" 
But  Helen,  voiceless,  did  not  seem  to  hear. 
"  'T  is  strange,"  I  added,  "  how  you  poets  sing 
So  feelingly  about  the  very  thing 
You  care  not  for!  and  dress  up  an  ideal 
So  well,  it  looks  a  living,  breathing  real! 
Now,  to  a  listener,  your  love  song  seemed 
A  heart's  out- pouring;  yet  I've  heard  you  say 
Almost  the  opposite;  or  that  you  deemed 
Position,  honor,  glory,  power,  fume, 
Gained  without  loss  of  conscience  or  good  name, 
The  things  to  live  for." 

"  Have  you?  Well, you  may," 

Laughed  Vivian,  "  but  'twas  years — or  months  ago! 
And  Solomon  says  wise  men  change,  you  know! 
I  now  speak  truth!  if  she  I  hold  most  dear 
Slipped  from  my  life,  and  no  least  hope  were  left, 
My  heart  would  find  the  years  more  lonely  here, 
Than  if  I  were  of  wealth,  fame,  friends,  bereft, 
And  sent  an  exile  to  a  foreign  land." 

His  voice  was  low,  and  measured:  as  he  spoke, 
Xew,  unknown  chords  of  melody  awoke 
"Within  my  soul.     I  felt  my  heart  expand 


MAURINE.  39 

With  that  sweet  fullness  born  of  love.     I  turned 
To  hide  the  blushes  on  my  cheek  that  burned, 
And  leaning  over  Helen,  breathed  her  name. 
She  lay  so  motionless  I  thought  she  slept: 
But,  as  I  spoke,  I  saw  her  eves  unclose, 
And  o'er  her  face  a  sudden  glory  swept, 
And  a  slight  tremor  thrilled  all  through  her  frame. 
"Sweet  friend,"  I  said,  "your  face  is  full  of  light: 
What  were  the    dreams    that  made   your  eyes  so 
bright?*" 

She  only  smiled  for  answer,  and  arose 

From  her  reclining  posture  at  my  side, 

Threw  back  the  clust'ring  ringlets  from  her  face 

With  a  quick  gesture,  full  of  easy  grace, 

And,  turning,  spoke  to  Vivian.     *'  Will  you  guide 

The  boat  up  near  that  little  clump  of  green 

Off  to  the  right?     There's  where  the  lilies  grow. 

We  quite  forgot  our  errand  here,  Maurine, 

And  our  few  moments  have  grown  into  hours. 

What  will  Aunt  Ruth  think  of  our  ling'ring  so? 

There — that  will  do — now  I  can  reach  the  flowers." 

"Hark!   just  hear  that!"    and  Yivian   broke  forth 

singing, 
:'  Row,  brothers,  row."  "  The  six  o'clock  bell's  ringing! 

Who  ever  knew  three  hours  to  go  so  fast 

In  all  the  annals  of  the  world,  before? 

I  could  have  sworn  not  over  one  had  passed. 

Young  ladies,  I  am  forced  to  go  ashore! 


40  MAUKIXE. 

I  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  given ; 
This  afternoon  has  been  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 
Goodnight — sweet  dreams!  and  by  your  graciou? 

leave, 
I'll  pay  ray  compliments  to-morrow  eve." 

A  smile,  a  bow,  and  he  had  gone  his  way : 

And,  in  the  waning  glory  of  the  day, 

Down  cool,  green  lanes,  and  through  the  length'ning 

shadows, 

Silent,  we  wandered  back  across  the  meadows. 
The  wreath  was  finished,  and  adorned  my  room ; 
Long  afterward,  the  lilies'  copied  bloom 
Was  like  a  horrid  specter  in  my  sight, 
Staring  upon  me  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

The  sun  went  down.     The  sad  new  moon  rose  up, 
And  passed  before  me,  like  an  empty  cup, 
The  Great  Unseen  brims  full  of  pain  or  bliss, 
And  gives  His  children,  saying,  "  Drink  of  this." 

A  light  wind,  from  the  open  casement,  fanned 
My  brow  and  Helen's,  as  we,  hand  in  hand, 
Sat  looking  out  upon  the  twilight  scene, 
In  dreamy  silence.     Helen's  dark  blue  eyes, 
Like  two  lost  stars  that  wandered  from  the  skies 
Some  night  adown  the  meteor's  shining  track, 
And  always  had  been  grieving  to  go  back, 
Xow  gazed  up,  wistfully,  at  heaven's  dome, 
And  seemed  to  recognize  and  long  for  home. 


MATJKINE.  41 

Her  sweet  voice  broke  the  silence:  "  Wish,  Maurine, 
Before  you  speak!  you  know  the  moon  is  new, 
And  anything  you  wish  for  will  corne  true 
Before  it  wanes.     I  do  believe  the  sign ! 

o 

Now  tell  me  your  wish,  and  I'll  tell  you  mine." 

I  turned  and  looked  up  at  the  slim  young  moon; 

And,  with  an  almost  superstitious  heart, 

I  sighed,  "  Oh,  new  moon!  help  me,  by  thine  art, 

To  grow  all  grace  and  goodness,  and  to  be 

Worthy  the  love  a  true  heart  proffers  me." 

Then  smiling  down,  I  said,  "  Dear  one!  my  boon, 

I  fear,  is  quite  too  silly  or  too  sweet 

For  my  repeating:  so  we'll  let  it  stay 

Between  the  moon  and  me.     But  if  I  may 

I'll  listen  now  to  your  wish.     Tell  me,  please! " 

All  suddenly  she  nestled  at  my  feet, 
And  hid  her  blushing  face  upon  my  knees. 
Then  drew  my  hand  against  her  glowing  cheek, 
And,  leaning  on  my  breast,  began  to  speak, 
Half  sighing  out  the  words  my  tortured  ear 
Reached  down  to  catch,  while  striving  not  to  hear. 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  't  was  about,  Maurine? 
Oh,  my  sweet  friend !  you  must  ere  this  have  seen 
The  love  I  tried  to  cover  from  all  eyes 
And  from  myself.     Ah,  foolish  little  heart! 
As  well  it  might  go  seeking  for  some  art 
Whereby  to  hide  the  sun  in  noonday  skies. 


3  MAVRIXE. 

When  first  the  strange  sound  of  his  voice  I  heard, 

C3 

Looked  on  his  noble  face,  and  touched  his  hand, 

Mv  slumb'ring  heart  thrilled  through  and  through, 

and  stirred 

As  if  to  say, '  I  hear,  and  understand.' 
And  day  by  day  mine  eyes  were  blest  beholding 
The  inner  beauty  of  his  life,  unfolding 
In  countless  words  and  actions,  that  portrayed 
The  noble  stuff  of  which  his  soul  was  made. 
And  more  and  more  I  felt  my  heart  u  preach  ing 
Toward  the  truth,  drawn  gently  by  his  teaching, 
As  flowers  are  drawn  by  sunlight.     And  there  grew 
A  strange,  shy  something  in  its  depths,  I  knew 
At  length  was  love,  because  it  was  so  sad. 
And  yet  so  sweet,  and  made  my  heart  so  glad, 
Yet  seemed  to  pain  me.     Then,  fur  very  shame, 
Lest  all  should  read  my  secret  and  its  name, 
I  strove  to  hide  it  in  my  breast  away, 
Where  God  could  see  it  only.     But  each  day 
It  seemed  to  grow  within  me,  and  would  rise, 
Like  my  own  soul,  and  look  forth  from  my  eyes, 
Defying  bonds  of  silence;  and  would  speak, 
In  its  red-lettered  language,  on  my  cheek. 
If  but  his  name  was  uttered.     You  were  kind. 
My  own  Maurine!  as  you  alone  could  be, 
So  long  the  sharer  of  my  heart  and  mind, 
While  yet  you  saw,  in  seeming  not  to  see. 
In  all  the  years  we  have  been  friends,  my  own, 
And  loved  as  women  very  rarely  do, 
My  heart  no  sorrow  and  no  joy  has  known 


M  A  U  11 1  X  E  43 

It  has  not  shared  at  once,  in  full,  with  you. 

And  I  so  longed  to  speak  to  you  of  this, 

When  first  I  felt  its  mingled  pain  and  bliss; 

Yet  dared  not,  lest  you,  knowing  him,  should  say, 

In  pity  for  my  folly — '  Lack-a-day ! 

You  are  undone:  because  no  mortal  art 

Can  win  the  love  of  such  a  lofty  heart.' 

And  so  I  waited,  silent  and  in  pain, 

Till  I  could  know  I  did  not  love  in  vain. 

And  now  I  know,  beyond  a  doubt  or  fear. 

Did  he  not  say, '  If  she  I  hold  most  dear 

Slipped  from  my  life,  and  no  least  hope  were  left, 

My  heart  would  find  the  years  more  lonely  here 

Than  if  I  were  of  wealth,  fame,  friends,  bereft, 

And  sent,  an  exile,  to  a  foreign  land  '? 

Oil,  darling,  you  must  love,  to  understand 

The  joy  that  thrilled  all  through  me  at  those  words. 

It  was  as  if  a  thousand  singing  birds 

"Within  my  heart  broke  forth  in  notes  of  praise. 

I  did  not  look  up,  but  I  knew  his  gaze 

Was  on  my  face,  and  that  his  eyes  must  see 

The  joy  I  felt  almost  transfigured  me. 

He  loves  me — loves  me!  so  the  birds  kept  singing. 

And  all  my  soul  with  that  sweet  strain  is  ringing 

If  there  were  added  but  one  drop  of  bliss, 

No  more  my  cup  would  hold:  and  so,  this  eve, 

I  made  a  wish  that  I  might  feel  his  kiss 

Upon  my  lips,  ere  yon  pale  moon  should  leave 

The  stars  all  lonely,  having  waned  away. 

Too  old  and  weak  and  bowed  with  care  to  stay." 


44  MAUKINE. 

Her  voice  sighed  into  silence.     While  she  spoke 
My  heart  writhed  in  me,  praying  she  would  cease — 
Each  word  she  uttered  falling  like  a  stroke 
On  my  bare  soul.     And  now  a  hush  like  death, 
Save  that  'twas  broken  by  a  quick-drawn  breath, 
Fell  'round    me,    but    brought  not    the  hoped-for 

peace. 

For  when  the  lash  no  longer  leaves  its  blows, 
The  flesh  still  quivers,  and  the  blood  still  flows. 

She  nestled  on  my  bosom  like  a  child. 

And  'neath  her  head  my  tortured  heart  throbbed 
wild 

"With  pain  and  pity.     She  had  told  her  tale — 

Her  self-deceiving  story  to  the  end. 

How  could  I  look  down  on  her  as  she  lay 

So  fair,  and  sweet,  and  lily-like,  and  frail — 

A  tender  blossom  on  my  breast,  and  say, 
"Nay,  you  are  wrong — you  do  mistake,  dear  friend! 
'Tis  I  am  loved,  not  you"?     Yet  that  were  truth, 

And  she  must  know  it  later. 

Should  I  speak, 

And  spread  a  ghastly  pallor  o'er  the  cheek 

Flushed    now  with  joy? — And  while  I,  doubting, 
pondered, 

She  spoke  again.     "  Mauri ne!  I  oft  have  wondered 

Why  you  and  Vivian  were  not  lovers.     He 

Is  all  a  heart  could  ask  its  king  to  be; 

And  you  have  beauty,  intellect  and  youth. 

I  think  it  strange  you  have  not  loved  each  other — 

Strange  how  he  could  pass  by  you  for  another 


MAUKINE.  45 

Not  lialf  so  fair  or  worthy.     Yet  I  know 

A  loving  Father  pre-arranged  it  so. 

I  think  my  heart  lias  known  him  all  these  years, 

And  waited  for  him.     And  if  when  he  came 

It  had  been  as  a  lover  of  my  friend, 

I  should  have  recognized  him,  all  the  same, 

As  my  soul-mate,  and  loved  him  to  the  end, 

Hiding  rny  grief,  and  forcing  back  my  tears 

Till  on  my  heart,  slow  dropping,  day  by  day, 

Unseen  they  fell,  and  wore  it  all  away. 

And  so  a  tender  Father  kept  him  free, 

With  all  the  largeness  of  his  love,  for  me — 

For  me,  unworthy  such  a  precious  gift! 

Yet  I  will  bend  each  effort  of  my  life 

To  grow  in  grace  and  goodness,  and  to  lift 

My  soul  and  spirit  to  his  lofty  height, 

So  to  deserve  that  holy  name,  his  wife. 

Sweet  friend,  it  fills  my  whole  heart  witli  delight 

To  breathe  its  long  hid  secret  in  your  ear. 

Speak,  my  Maurine,  and  say  you  love  to  hear!" 

The  while  she  spoke,  my  active  brain  gave  rise 

To  one  great  thought  of  mighty  sacrifice 

And  self-denial.     Oh!  it  blanched  my  cheek, 

And  wrung  my  soul;  and  from  my  heart  it  drove 

All  life  and  feeling.     Coward-like,  I  strove 

To  send  it  from  me:  but  I  felt  it  cling 

And  hold  fast  on  my  mind  like  some  live  thing; 

And  all  the  Self  within  me  felt  its  touch 

And  cried,  ''  No,  no!  J  cannot  do  so  much — 


46  MAUK1XE. 

I  am  not  strong  enough — there  is  no  call." 
And  then  the  voice  of  Helen  bade  me  speak, 
And  with  a  calmness  born  of  nerve,  I  said, 
Scarce  knowing  what  I  uttered, k%  Sweetheart,  all 
Your  joys  and  sorrows  are  with  mine  own  wed. 
1  thank  you  for  your  confidence,  and  pray 
I  may  deserve  it  always.     But,  dear  one, 
Something — perhaps  our  boat-ride  in  the  sun, 
Has  set  my  head  to  aching.     I  must  go 
To  bed  directly;  and  you  will,  I  know, 
Grant  me  your  pardon,  and  another  day 
We'll  talk  of  this  together.     Now  good  night 
And  angels  guard  you  with  their  wings  of  light." 

I  kissed  her  lips,  and  held  her  on  my  heart. 

And  viewed  her  as  I  ne'er  had  done  before. 

I  gazed  upon  her  features  o'er  and  o'er; 

Marked  her  white,  tender  face — her  fragile  form. 

Like  some  frail  plant  that  withers  in  the  storm; 

Saw  she  was  fairer  in  her  new-found  joy 

Than  e'er  before;  and  thought,  "  Can  I  destroy 

God's  handiwork,  or  leave  it  at  the  best 

A  broken  harp,  while  I  close  clasp  my  bliss*'' 

I  bent  my  head  and  gave  her  one  last  kiss, 

And  sought  my  room,  and  found  there  such  relief 

As  sad  hearts  feel  when  first  alone  with  grief. 

The  moon  went  down,  slow  sailing  from  my  sight. 
And  left  the  stars  to  watch  away  the  night. 
O  stars,  sweet  stars,  so  changeless  and  serene! 
What  depths  of  woe  your  pitying  eyes  have  seen' 


MAUEINE.  4V 

The  proud  sun  sets,  and  leaves  us  with  our  sorrow, 
To  grope  alone  in  darkness  till  the  morrow. 
The  languid  moon,  e'en  if  she  deigns  to  rise, 
Soon  seeks  her  couch,  grown  weary  of  our  sighs; 
But  from  the  early  gloaming  till  the  day 
Sends  golden-liveried  heralds  forth  to  say 
He  comes  in  might;   the  patient  stars  shine  on, 
Steadfast  arid  faithful,  from  twilight  to  dawn. 
And,  as  they  shone  upon  Gethsemane, 
And  watched  the  struggle  of  a  God-like  soul, 
Now  from  the  same  far  height  they  shone  on  me, 
And  saw  the  waves  of  anguish  o'er  me  roll. 

The  storm  had  come  upon  me  all  unseen: 

No  sound  of  thunder  fell  upon  my  ear; 

Xo  cloud  arose  to  tell  me  it  was  near; 

But  under  skies  all  sunlit,  and  serene, 

I  floated  with  the  current  of  the  stream, 

And  thought  life  all  one  golden-haloed  dream. 

When  lo!  a  hurricane,  with  awful  force, 

Swept  swift  upon  its  devastating  course, 

Wrecked  my  frail  bark,  and  cast  me  on  the  wave 

Where  all  my  hopes  had  found  a  sudden  grave. 

Love  makes  us  blind  and  selfish:  otherwise 

I  had  seen  Helen's  secret  in  her  eyes  ; 

So  used  I  was  to  reading  every  look 

In  her  sweet  face,  as  I  would  read  a  book. 

But  now,  made  sightless  by  love's  blinding  rays, 

I  had  gone  on  unseeing,  to  the  end 

Where  Pain  dispelled  the  mist  of  golden  haze 


48  MAURINE. 

That  walled  me  in,  and  lo!  I  found  my  friend 
Who  journeyed  with  me — at  my  very  side, 
Had  been  sore  wounded  to  the  heart,  while  I 
Both  deaf  and  blind,  saw  not,  nor  heard  her  cry. 
And  then  I  sobbed,  "  O  God!  I  would  have  died 
To  save  her  this."     And  as  I  cried  in  pain, 
There  leaped  forth  from   the  still,  white  realm  of 

Thought 

Where  Conscience  dwells,  that  unimpassioned  spot 
As  widely  different  from  the  heart's  domain 
As  north  from  south — the  impulse  felt  before, 
And  put  away;  but  now  it  rose  once  more, 
In  greater  strength,  and  said,  "  Heart,  would'st  thou 

prove 
What  lips  have  uttered?     Then  go  lav  thv  love 

y  o  «/  •/ 

On  Friendship's  altar,  as  thy  offering." 
"Xay!  "  cried  my  heart,  "  ask  any  other  thing- 
Ask  life  itself — 't  were  easier  sacrifice. 
But  ask  not  love,  for  that  I  cannot  give." 

v  But,"  spoke  the  voice,  "  the  meanest  insect  dies, 
And  is  no  hero!  heroes  dare  to  live 
When  all  that  makes  life  sweet  is  snatched  away.'' 
So  with  my  heart,  in  converse,  till  the  day 
In  gold  and  crimson  billows,  rose  and  broke, 
The  voice  of  Conscience,  all  unwearied,  spoke. 
Love  warred  with  Friendship:  heart  with  Conscience 

fought, 
Hours  rolled  arwa,y»  and  yet  the  end  was  not. 


MAUKINE.  49 

And  wily  Self,  tricked  out  like  tenderness, 
Sighed,  "  Think  how  one,  whose  life  thou  wert  to 

bless, 

Will  be  cast  down,  and  grope  in  doubt  and  fear! 
Wouldst  thou  wound  him,  to  give  thy  friend  relief? 
Can  wrong  make  right?" 

"Nay!"  Conscience  said,  "but  Pride 
And  Time  can  heal  the  saddest  hurts  of  Love. 
While  Friendship's  wounds  gape  wide  and  yet  more 

wide, 
And  bitter  fountains  of  the  spirit  prove." 

At  length,  exhausted  with  the  wearing  strife, 
I  cast  the  new-found  burden  of  my  life 
On  God's  broad  breast,  and  sought  that  deep  repose 
That  only  he  who  watched  with  sorrow  knows. 


5.0  MAURIXE. 


PART  IV. 

"  Maurine,  Maurine!  'tis  ten  o'clock!  arise, 
My  pretty  sluggard!  open  those  dark  eyes, 
And  see  where  yonder  sun  is!     Do  you  know 
I  made  my  toilet  just  four  hours  ago?" 

'T  was  Helen's  voice:  and  Helen's  gentle  kiss 
Fell  on  my  cheek.     As  from  a  deep  abyss, 
I  drew  my  weary  self  from  that  strange  sleep 
That  rests  not,  nor  refreshes.     Scarce  awake 
Or  conscious,  yet  there  seemed  a  heavy  weight 
Bound  on  my  breast,  as  by  a  cruel  Fate. 
I  knew  not  why,  and  yet  I  longed  to  weep. 
Some  dark  cloud  seemed  to  hang  upon  the  day; 
And,  for  a  moment,  in  that  trance  I  lay, 
When  suddenly  the  truth  did  o'er  me  break, 
Like  some  great  wave  upon  a  helpless  child. 
The  dull  pain  in  my  breast  grew  like  a  knife — 
The  heavy  throbbing  of  my  heart  grew  wild, 
And  God  gave  back  the  burden  of  the  life 
He  kept  what  time  I  slumbered. 

"  You  are  ill," 

Cried  Helen,  "  with  that  blinding  headache  still ! 
You  look  so  pale  and  wear}'.     Xow  let  me 
Play  nurse,  Maurine,  and  care  for  you  to-day! 
And  first  I'll  suit  some  dainty  to  your  taste, 
And  bring  it  to  you,  with  a  cup  of  tea." 
And  off  she  ran,  not  waiting  my  reply. 


MAUEINE.  51 

But,  wanting  most  the  sunshine  and  the  light, 
I  left  my  couch,  and  clothed  myself  in  haste, 
And,  kneeling,  sent  to  God  an  earnest  cry 
For  help  and  guidance. 

"  Show  Thou  me  the  way, 
Where  duty  leads;  for  I  am  blind!  my  sight 
Obscured  by  self.     Oh,  lead  rny  steps  aright! 
Help  me  see  the  path:  and  if  it  may, 
Let  this  cup  pass: — and  yet  Thou  heavenly  One 
Thy  will  in  all  things,  not  mine  own,  be  done." 
Rising,  I  went  upon  my  way,  receiving 
The  strength  prayer  gives  alway  to  hearts  believing. 
I  felt  that  unseen  hands  were  leading  me, 
And  knew  the  end  was  peace. 

"  What!  are  you  up?" 
Cried  Helen,  coming  with  a  tray,  and  cup, 
Of  tender  toast,  and  fragrant  smoking  tea. 
kv  You  naughty  girl!  you  should  have  stayed  in  bed 
Until  you  ate  your  breakfast,  and  were  better? 
I've  something  hidden  for  you  here — a  letter. 
But  drink  your  tea  before  you  read  it,  dear! 
'Tis  from  some  distant  cousin,  Auntie  said, 
And  so  you  need  not  hurry.     Now  be  good, 
And  mind  your  Helen." 

So,  in  passive  mood, 
I  laid  the  still  unopened  letter  near, 
And  loitered  at  my  breakfast  more  to  please 
My  nurse,  than  any  hunger  to  appease. 
Then  listlessly  I  broke  the  seal  and  read 
The  few  lines  written  in  a  bold  free  hand : 


52  MA  URINE. 

"New  London,  Canada.     Dear  Coz.Maurine! 
(In  spite  of  generations  stretched  between 
Our  natural  right  to  that  most  handy  claim 
Of  cousinship,  we'll  use  it  all  the  same) 
I'm  coming  to  see  you!  honestly,  in  truth! 
I've  threatened  often — now  I  mean  to  act. 
You'll  find  my  coming  is  a  stubborn  fact. 
Keep  quiet  though,  and  do  not  tell  Aunt  Ruth. 
I  wonder  if  she'll  know  her  petted  boy 
In  spite  of  changes.     Look  for  me  until 
You  see  me  coming.     As  of  old  I'm  still 
Your  faithful  friend,  and  loving  cousin,  Roy." 

So  Roy  was  coming!     He  and  I  had  played 
As  boy  and  girl,  and  later,  youth  and  maid, 
Full  half  our  lives  together.     He  had  been, 
Like  me,  an  orphan;  and  the  roof  of  kin 
Gave  both  kind  shelter.     Swift  years  sped  away 
Ere  change  was  felt:  and  then  one  summer  day 
A  long  lost  uncle  sailed  from  India's  shore — 
Made  Roy  his  heir,  and  he  was  ours  no  more. 

"  He'd  write  us  daily,  and  we'd  see  his  face 
Once  every  year."     Such  was  his  promise  given 
The  morn  he  left.     But  now  the  years  were  seven 
Since  last  he  looked  upon  the  olden  place. 
He'd  been  through  college,  traveled  in  all  lands, 
Sailed  over  seas,  and  trod  the  desert  sands. 
Would  write  and  plan  a  visit,  then,  ere  long, 
Would  write  again  from  Egypt  or  Hong  Kong — 


MAURINE.  53 

Some  fancy  called  him  thither  unforeseen. 

So  years  had  passed,  till  seven  lay  between 

His  going  and  the  coming  of  this  note, 

Which  I  hid  in  my  bosom,  and  replied 

To  Aunt  Ruth's  queries,  "What  the  truant  wrote?" 

By  saying  he  was  still  upon  the  wing, 

And  merely  dropped  a  line,  while  journeying, 

To  say  he  lived:  and  she  was  satisfied. 

Sometimes  it  happens,  in  this  world  so  strange, 
A  human  heart  will  pass  through  mortal  strife, 
And  writhe  in  torture:  while  the  old  sweet  life 
So  full  of  hope,  and  beauty,  bloom  and  grace, 
Is  slowly  strangled  by  remorseless  Pain: 
And  one  stern,  cold,  relentless,  takes  its  place — 
A  ghastly,  pallid  specter  of  the  slain. 
Yet  those  in  daily  converse  see  no  change 
Nor  dream  the  heart  has  suffered. 

So  that  day 

L  passed  along  toward  the  troubled  way 
Stern  duty  pointed,  and  no  mortal  guessed 
A  mighty  conflict  had  disturbed  my  breast. 

I  had  resolved  to  yield  up  to  my  friend 

The  man  I  loved.     Since  she,  too,  loved  him  so 

I  saw  no  other  way  in  honor  left. 

She  was  so  weak  and  fragile,  once  bereft 

Of  this  great  hope,  that  held  her  with  such  power, 

She  would  wilt  down,  like  some  frost-bitten  flower, 

And  swift  untimely  death  would  be  the  end. 


54  MAUHIKE. 

But  I  was  strong:  and  hardy  plants,  which  grow 
In  out-door  soil,  can  bear  bleak  winds  that  blow 
From  Arctic  lands,  whereof  a  single  breath 
Would  lay  the  hot-house  blossom  low  in  death. 

The  hours  went  by,  too  slow,  and  yet  too  fast. 
All  day  I  argued  with  my  foolish  heart 
That  bade  me  play  the  shrinking  coward's  part 
And  hide  from  pain.     And  when  the  day  had  past 
And  time  for  Vivian's  call  drew  near  and  nearer. 
It  pleaded,  "Wait,  until  the  way  seems  clearer: 
Say  you  are  ill — or  busy:  keep  away 
Until  you  gather  strength  enough  to  play 
The  part  you  have  resolved  on." 

"  Xay,  not  so," 

Made  answer  clear-eyed  Reason,  "  Do  you  go 
And  put  your  resolution  to  the  test. 
Resolve,  however  nobly  formed,  at  best 
Is  but  a  still-born  babe  of  Thought,  until 
It  proves  existence  of  its  life  and  will 
By  sound  or  action." 

So  when  Helen  came 
And  knelt  by  me,  her  fair  face  all  aflame 
With  sudden  blushes,  whispering,  "My  sweet! 
My  heart  can  hear  the  music  of  his  feet — 
Go  down  with  me  to  meet  him,''   I  arose, 
And  went  with  her  all  calmly,  as  one  goes 
To  look  upon  the  dear  face  of  the  dead. 


MA  URINE.  55 

That  eve,  I  know  not  what  I  did  or  said. 

I  was  not  cold — my  manner  was  not  strange: 

Perchance  I  talked  more  freely  than  my  wont, 

But  in  my  speech  was  naught  could  give  affront; 

Yet  I  conveyed,  as  only  woman  can, 

That  nameless  something,  which  bespeaks  a  change. 

'Tis  in  the  power  of  woman,  if  she  be 
Whole-souled  and  noble,  free  from  coquetry — 
Her  motives  all  unselfish,  worthy,  good, 
To  make  herself  and  feelings  understood 
By  nameless  acts — thus  sparing  what  to  man, 
However  gently  answered,  causes  pain, 
The  offering  of  his  hand  and  heart  in  vain. 

She  can  be  friendly,  unrestrained,  and  kind, 

Assume  no  airs  of  pride  or  arrogance; 

But  in  her  voice,  her  manner,  and  her  glance, 

Convey  that  mystic  something,  undefined, 

Which  men  fail  not  to  understand  and  read, 

And,  when  not  blind  with  egoism,  heed. 

My  task  was  harder.     'T  was  the  slow  undoing 

Of  long  swTeet  months  of  unimpeded  wooing. 

It  was  to  hide  and  cover  and  conceal 

The  truth — assuming,  what  I  did  not  feel. 

It  was  to  dam  love's  happy  singing  tide 

That  blessed  me  with  its  hopeful,  tuneful  tone, 

By  feigned  indiff'rence,  till  it  turned  aside, 

And  changed  its  channel,  leaving  me  alone 

To  walk  parched  plains,  and  thirst  for  that  sweet 

draught 
My  lips  had  tasted,  but  another  quaffed. 


5G  MAURIXE. 

It  couid  be  done.     For  no  words  vet  were  spoken — 
Koiie  to  recall — no  pledges  to  be  broken. 
'•  He  will  be  grieved,  then  angry,  cold,  then  cross," 
I  reasoned,  thinking  what  would  be  his  part 
In  this  strange  drama.     "  Then,  because  his  heart 
Feels  something  lacking,  to  make  good  his  loss, 
He'll  turn  to  Helen:  and  her  gentle  grace 
And  loving  acts  will  win  her  soon  the  place 
I  hold  to-day:  and  like  a  troubled  dream 
At  length,   our   past,   when   he   looks   back,   will 
seem." 

That  evening  passed  with  music,  chat  and  song: 
But  hours  that  once  had  flown  on  airy  wings 
Now  limped  on  weary,  aching  limbs  along, 
Each  moment  like  some  dreaded  step  that  brings 
A  twinge  of  pain. 

As  Yivian  rose  to  go, 

Slow  bending  to  me,  from  his  greater  height, 
He  took  my  hand,  and,  looking  in  my  eyes, 
With  tender  questioning  and  pained  surprise, 
Said,  "  Maurine,  you  are  not  yourself  to-night! 
"What  is  it?     Are  you  ailing?" 

"Ailing?  no," 

I  answered,  laughing  lightly,  "  I  am  not: 
Just  see  my  cheek,  sir!  is  it  thin,  or  pale? 
Now  tell  me,  am  I  looking  very  frail?" 
'l  Xay,  nay!"  he  answered,  "  it  can  not  be  seen, 
The  change  I  speak  of — 'twas  more  in  your  mien: 
Preoccupation,  or — I  know  not  what! 
Miss  Helen,  am  I  wron^,  or  does  Maurine 

/  O ' 

Stem  to  have  something  on  her  mind  this 


MAUUINE.  5? 

'She  does?"  laughed  Helen,  "  and  I  do  believe 
I  know  what  'tis!     A  letter  came  to-day 
Which  she  read  slyly,  and  then  hid  away 
Close  to  her  heart,  not  knowing  I  was  near: 
And  since  she's  been  as  you  have  seen  her  here. 
See  how  she  blushes!  so  my  random  shot 
We  must  believe  has  struck  a  tender  spot," 

Her  rippling  laughter  floated  through  the  room, 

And  redder  yet  I  felt  the  hot  blood  rise, 

Then  surge  away  to  leave  me  pale  as  death, 

Under  the  dark  and  swiftly  gathering  gloom. 

Of  Vivian's  questioning,  accusing  eyes, 

That  searched  my  soul.     I  almost  shrieked  beneath 

That  stern,  fixed  gaze;  and  stood  spell-bound  until 

He  turned  with  sudden  movement,  gave  his  hand 

To  each  in  turn,  and  said,  "  You  must  not  stand 

Longer,  young  ladies,  in  this  open  door. 

The  air  is  heavy  with  a  cold  damp  chill. 

We  shall  have  rain  to-morrow,  or  before. 

Good  night." 

He  vanished  in  the  darkling  shade; 

o  / 

And  so  the  dreaded  evening  found  an  end, 
That  saw  me  grasp  the  conscience-whetted  blade, 
^  And  strike  a  blow  for  honor  and  for  friend. 

"How  swiftly  passed  the  evening!"  Helen  sighed. 

"  How  long  the  hours  !"  my  tortured  heart  replied. 
Joy,  like  a  child,  with  lightsome  steps  doth  glide 
By  Father  Time,  and,  looking  in  his  face, 
Cries,  snatching  blossoms  from  the  fair  road-side, 

"I  could  pluck  more, but  for  thy  hurried  pace." 


58  MAURICE, 

The  while  her  elder  brother  Pain,  man  grown. 
Whose  feet  are  hurt  by  many  a  thorn  and  stone, 
Looks  to  some  distant  hill-top,  high  and  calm, 
Where  he  shall  find  not  only  rest,  but  bairn 
For  all  his  wounds,  and  cries  in  tones  of  woe, 
hO  Father  Time!  why  is  thy  pace  so  slow?" 

Two  days,  all  sad  with  lonely  wind  and  rain, 

Went  sobbing  by,  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 

The  miserere,  desolate  and  drear, 

Which  every  human  heart  must  sometime  hear. 

Pain  is  but  little  varied.     Its  refrain, 

Whate'er  the  words  are,  is  for  aye  the  same. 

The  third  day  brought  a  change:  for  with  it  came 

Not  only  sunny  smiles  to  Nature's  face. 

But  Roy,  our  Roy  came  back  to  us.     Once  more 

We  looked  into  his  laughing,  handsome  eyes, 

Which,  while  they  gave  Aunt  Ruth  a  glad  surprise 

In  no  way  puzzled  her:  for  one  glance  told 

What  each  succeeding  one  confirmed,  that  he 

Who  bent  above  her  with  the  lissome  grace 

Of  his  fine  form,  though  grown  so  tall,  could  be 

No  other  than  the  Roy  Montaine  of  old. 

It  was  a  sweet  reunion:  and  he  brought 
So  much  of  sunshine  with  him,  that  I  caught, 
Just  from  his  smile  alone,  enough  of  gladness 
To  make  my  heart  forget  a  time  its  sadness. 
We  talked  together  of  the  dear  old  days: 
Leaving  the  present,  with  its  depths  and  heights 
Of  life's  maturer  sorrows  and  delights 


MAURINE.  59 

I  turned  back  to  my  childhood's  level  land, 
And  Roy  and  I,  dear  playmates,  hand  in  hand, 
Wandered  in  mem'ry,  through  the  olden  ways. 

It  was  the  second  evening  of  his  coming. 
Helen  was  playing  dreamily,  and  humming 
Some  wordless  melody  of  white-souled  thought, 
While  Eoy  and  I  sat  by  the  open  door, 
Re-living  childish  incidents  of  yore. 
My  eyes  were  glowing,  and  my  cheeks  were  hot 
With  wrarm  young  blood;  excitement,  joy,  or  pain 
Alike  would  send  swift  coursing  through  each  vein. 
Roy,  always  eloquent,  was  waxing  fine, 
And  bringing  vividly  before  my  gaze 
Some  old  adventure  of  those  halcyon  days, 
When  suddenly  in  pauses  of  the  talk, 
I  heard  a  well-known  step  upon  the  walk, 
And  looked  up  quickly  to  meet  full  in  mine 
The  eyes  of  Vivian  Dangerfield.     A  flash 
Shot  from  their  depths: — a  sudden  blaze  of  light 
Like  that  swift  followed  by  the  thunder's  crash, 
Which  said,  "  Suspicion  is  confirmed  by  sight," 
As  they  fell  on  the  pleasant  door-way  scene. 
Then  o'er  his  clear-cut  face,  a  cold  white  look 
Crept,  like  the  pallid  moonlight  o'er  a  brook, 
And,  with  a  slight,  proud  bending  of  the  head, 
He  stepped  toward  us  haughtily  and  said, 
"Please  pardon  my  intrusion,  Miss  Maurine: 
I  called  to  ask  Miss  Trevor  for  a  book 
She  spoke  of  lending  me:  nay,  sit  you  still! 
And  I,  by  grant  of  your  permission,  will 


GO  MAUEINE. 

Pass  by  to  where  I  hear  her  playing.'' 

•'Stay!" 

I  said,  "one  moment,  Vivian,  if  you  please;'' 
And  suddenly  bereft  of  all  my  ease. 
And  scarcely  knowing  what  to  do,  or  say, 
Confused  as  any  school-girl,  I  arose, 
And  some  way  made  each  to  the  other  known. 
They  bowed,  shook  hands:  then  Vivian  turned  away 
And  sought  out  Helen,  leaving  us  alone. 

"One  of  Miss  Trevor's,  or  of  Maurine's  beaux? 
Which  may  he  be,  who  cometh  like  a  prince 
With  haughty  bearing,  and  an  eagle  eye?" 
Roy  queried,  laughing:  and  I  answered,  "  Since 
You  saw  him  pass  me  for  Miss  Trevor's  side, 
I  leave  your  own  good  judgment  to  reply." 

And  straightway  caused  the  tide  of  talk  to  glide 

In  other  channels,  striving  to  dispel 

The  sudden  gloom  that  o'er  my  spirit  fell. 

We  mortals  are  such  hypocrites  at  best ! 
When  Conscience  tries  our  courage  with  a  test, 
And  points  to  some  steep  pathway,  we  set  out 
Boldly,  denying  any  fear  or  doubt; 
But  pause  before  the  first  rock  in  the  way, 
And,  looking  back,  with  tears,  at  Conscience,  say, 
"  We  are  so  sad,  dear  Conscience!  for  we  would 
Most  gladly  do  what  to  thee  seemeth  good; 
But  lo!  this  rock!  we  cannot  climb  it,  so 
Thou  must  point  out  some  other  way  to  go." 


MA  URINE.  61 

Yet  secretly  we  are  rejoicing:  and, 

When  right  before  our  faces,  as  we  stand 

In  seeming  grief,  the  rock  is  cleft  in  twain, 

Leaving  the  pathway  clear,  we  shrink  in  pain! 

And  loth  to  go,  by  every  act  reveal 

What  we  so  tried  from  Conscience  to  conceal. 

I  saw  that  hour,  the  way  made  plain,  to  do 
With  scarce  an  effort,  what  had  seemed  a  strife 
That  would  require  the  strength  of  my  whole  life. 

Women  have  quick  perceptions:  and  I  knew 

That  Vivian's  heart  was  full  of  jealous  pain, 

Suspecting — nay  believing  Hoy  Montaine 

To  be  ray  lover.     First  my  altered  mien — 

And  next  the  letter — then  the  door-way  scene — 

My  flushed  face  gazing  in  the  one  above 

That  bent  so  near  me,  and  my  strange  confusion 

When  Vivian  came,  all  led  to  one  conclusion: 

That  I  had  but  been  playing  with  his  love, 

As  women  sometimes  cruelly  do  play 

With  hearts  when  their  true  lovers  are  away. 

There  could  be  nothing  easier,  than  just 

To  let  him  linger  on  in  this  belief 

Till  hourly-fed  Suspicion  and  Distrust 

Should  turn  to  scorn  and  anger  all  his  grief. 

Compared  with  me,  so  doubly  sweet  and  pure 

Would  Helen  seem,  my  purpose  would  be  sure, 

And  certain  of  completion  in  the  end. 

But  now,  the  way  was  made  so  straight  and  clear, 

My  coward  heart  shrank  back  in  guilty  fear, 


62  MAUKINE. 

Till  Conscience  whispered  with  her    "  still  small 

voice," 

"  The  precious  time  is  passing — make  thy  choice — 
Resign  thy  love,  or  slay  thy  trusting  friend." 

The  growing  moon,  watched  by  the  myriad  eyes 

Of  countless  stars,  went  sailing  through  the  skies, 

Like  some  young  prince,  rising  to  rule  a  nation, 

To  whom  all  eyes  are  turned  in  expectation. 

A  woman  who  possesses  tact  and  art 

And  strength  of  will  can  take  the  hand  of  doom, 

And  walk  on,  smiling  sweetly  as  she  goes, 

With  rosy  lips,  and  rounded  cheeks  of  bloom, 

Cheating  a  loud-tongued  world  that  never  knows 

The  pain  and  sorrow  of  her  hidden  heart. 

And  so  I  joined  in  Roy's  bright  changing  chat; 

Answered  his  sallies — talked  of  this  and  that, 

My  brow  unruffled  as  the  calm  still  wave 

That  tells  not  of  the  wrecked  ship,  and  the  grave 

Beneath  its  surface. 

Then  we  heard,  ere  long, 
The  sound  of  Helen's  gentle  voice  in  song, 
And,  rising,  entered  where  the  subtle  power 
Of  Vivian's  eyes,  forgiving  while  accusing, 
Finding  me  weak,  had  won  me,  in  that  hour; 
But  Roy,  alway  polite  and  debonair 
Where  ladies  were,  now  hung  about  my  chair 
With  nameless  delicate  attentions,  using 
That  air  devotional,  and  those  small  arts 
Acquaintance  with  society  imparts 
To  men  gallant  by  nature, 


MAURINE.  63 

'Twas  my  sex 

And  not  myself  he  bowed  to.     Had  my  place 
Been  filled  that  evening  by  a  dowager, 
Twice  his  own  age,  he  would  have  given  her 
The  same  attentions.     But  they  served  to  vex 
Whatever  hope  in  Vivian's  heart  remained. 
The  cold,  white  look  crept  back  upon  his  face, 
Which  told  how  deeply  he  was  hurt  and  pained. 

Little  by  little  all  things  had  conspired, 
To  bring  events  I  dreaded,  yet  desired. 
We  were  in  constant  intercourse:  walks,  rides, 
Picnics  and  sails,  filled  weeks  of  golden  weather, 
And  almost  hourly  we  were  thrown  together. 
No  words  were  spoken  of  rebuke  or  scorn: 
Good  friends  we  seemed.     But  as  a  gulf  divides 
This  land  and  that,  though  lying  side  by  side, 
So  rolled  a  gulf  between  us — deep  and  wide — 
The  gulf  of  doubt,  which  widened  slowly  morn 
And  noon  and  night. 

Free  and  informal  were 

These  picnics  and  excursions.     Yet,  although 
Helen  and  I  would  sometimes  choose  to  go 
Without  our  escorts,  leaving  them  quite  free, 
It  happened  alway  Roy  would  seek  out  me 
Ere  passed  the  day,  while  Vivian,  walked  with  her. 
I  had  no  thought  of  flirting.     Roy  was  just 
Like  some  dear  brother,  and  I  quite  forgot 
The  kinship  was  so  distant  it  was  not 
Safe  to  rely  upon  in  perfect  trust, 
5 


64  MAUKIXE. 

Without  reserve  or  caution.     Many  a  time 

When  there  was  some  steep  mountain  side  to  climb. 

And  I  grew  weary,  he  would  say,  "  Maurine, 

Come  rest  you  here."     And  I  would  go  and  lean 

My  head  upon  his  shoulder,  or  would  stand 

And  let  him  hold  in  his  my  willing  hand, 

The  while  he  stroked  it  gently  with  his  own. 

Or  I  would  let  him  clasp  me  with  his  arm, 

Nor  entertained  a  thought  of  any  harm, 

Nor  once  supposed  but  Vivian  was  alone 

In  his  suspicions.     But  ere  long  the  truth 

I  learned  in  consternation!  both  Aunt  Ruth 

And  Helen,  honestly,  in  faith  believed 

That  Roy  and  I  were  lovers. 

Undeceived, 

Some  careless  words  might  open  Vivian's  eyes 
And  spoil  my  plans.     So,  reasoning  in  this  wise, 
To  all  their  sallies  I  in  jest  replied, 
To  naught  assented,  and  yet  naught  denied, 
With  Roy  unchanged  remaining,  confident 
Each  understood  just  what  the  other  meant. 

If  I  grew  weary  of  this  double  part, 
And  self-imposed  deception  caused  my  heart 
Sometimes  to  shrink,  I  needed  but  to  gaze 
On  Helen's  face:  that  wore  a  look  ethereal, 
As  if  she  dwelt  above  the  things  material 
And  held  communion  with  the  angels.     So 
I  fed  my  strength  and  courage  through  the  days. 


MA  URINE.  65 

"What  time  the  harvest  moon  rose  fall  and  clear 
And  cast  its  ling'ring  radiance  on  the  earth. 
We  made  a  feast;  and  called  from  far  and  near, 
Our  friends,  who  came  to  share  the  scene  of  mirth. 
Fair  forms  and  faces  flitted  to  and  fro; 
But   none  more  sweet   than    Helen's.     Robed    in 

white, 

She  floated  like  a  vision  through  the  dance. 
So  frailly  fragile  and  so  phantom  fair, 
She  seemed  like  some  stray  spirit  of  the  air, 
And  was  pursued  by  many  an  anxious  glance 
That  looked  to  see  her  fading  from  the  sight 
Like  figures  that  a  dreamer  sees  at  night. 

And  noble  men  and  gallants  graced  the  scene: 
Yet  none  more  noble  or  more  grand  of  mien 
Than  Vivian — broad  of  chest  and  shoulder,  tall 
And  finely  formed,  as  any  Grecian  god 
Whose  high-arched  foot  on  Mount  Olympus  trod. 
His  clear-cut  face  was  beardless;  and,  like  those 
Same  Grecian  statues,  when  in  calm  repose, 
Was  it  in  hue  and  feature.     Framed  in  hair 
Dark  and  abundant;  lighted  by  large  eyes 
That  could  be  cold  as  steel  in  winter  air, 
Or  warm  and  sunny  as  Italian  skies. 

Weary  of  mirth  and  music,  and  the  sound 
Of  tripping  feet,  I  sought  a  moment's  rest 
Within  the  lib'ry,  where  a  group  I  found 
Of  guests,  discussing  with  apparent  zest 
Some  theme  of  interest — Vivian,  near  the  while, 
Leaning  and  listening  with  his  slow  odd  amile. 


66  M  AIT  KIKE. 

"  Now  Miss  La  Pelle,  we  will  appeal  to  you," 
Cried  young  Guy  Semple,  as  I  entered.     "  We 
Have  been  discussing  right  before  his  face, 
All  un rebuked  by  him,  as  you  may  see, 
A  poem  lately  published  by  our  friend: 
And  we  are  quite  divided.     I  contend 
The  poern  is  a  libel  and  untrue. 
I  hold  the  fickle  women  are  but  few, 
Compared  with  those  who  are  like  yon  fair  moon 
That,  ever  faithful,  rises  in  her  place 
Whether  she's  greeted  by  the  flowers  of  June, 
Or  cold  and  dreary  stretches  of  white  space." 

"Oh!"  cried  another,  "Mr.  Dangerfield, 
Look  to  your  laurels!  or  you  needs  must  yield 
The  crown  to  Semple,  who,  't  is  very  pl'ain, 
Has  mounted  Pegasus  and  grasped  his  mane." 

All  laughed:  and  then,  as  Guy  appealed  to  me 
I  answered  lightly,  "  My  young  friend,  I  fear 
You  chose  a  most  unlucky  simile 
To  prove  the  truth  of  woman.     To  her  place 
The  moon  does  rise — but  with  a  different  face 
Each  time  she  comes.     But  now  I  needs  must  hear 
The  poem  read,  before  I  can  consent 
To  pass  my  judgment  on  the  sentiment." 

All  clamored  that  the  author  was  the  man 
To  read  the  poem:  and,  with  tones  that  said 
More  than  the  cutting,  scornful  words  he  read; 
Taking  the  book  Guy  gave  him,  he  began: 


MAURIXE.  67 


HER  LOVE. 

The  sands  upon  the  ocean  side 
That  change  about  with  every  tide, 
And  never  true  to  one  abide, 
A  woman's  love  I  liken  to. 

The  summer  zephyrs,  light  and  vain, 
That  sing  the  same  alluring  strain 
To  every  grass  blade  on  the  plain — 
A  woman's  love  is  nothing  more. 

The  sunshine  of  an  April  day 
That  comes  to  warm  you  with  its  ray, 
But  while  you  smile  has  flown  away — 
A  woman's  love  is  like  to  this. 

God  made  poor  woman  with  no  heart, 
But  gave  her  skill,  and  tact,  and  art, 
And  so  she  lives,  and  plays  her  part. 
We  must  not  blame,  but  pity  her. 

She  leans  to  man — but  just  to  hear 
The  praise  he  whispers  in  her  ear, 
Herself,  not  him,  she  holdeth  dear — 
O  fool !  to  be  deceived  by  her. 

To  sate  her  selfish  thirst  she  quaffs 
The  love  of  strong  hearts  in  sweet  draughts 
Then  throws  them  lightly  by  and  laughs, 
Too  weak  to  understand  their  pain. 

As  changeful  as  the  winds  that  blow 
From  every  region,  to  and  fro, 
Devoid  of  heart,  she  cannot  know 
The  suffering  of  a  human  heart. 


68  MAURINE. 

I  knew  the  cold,  fixed  gaze  of  Vivian's  eyes 
Saw  the  slow  color  to  my  forehead  rise; 
But  lightly  answered,  toying  with  my  fan, 
''That  sentiment  is  very  like  a  man! 
Men  call  ns  fickle,  but  they  do  us  wrong; 
We're  only  frail  and  helpless,  men  are  strong; 
And  when  love  dies,  they  take  the  poor  dead  thing 
And  make  a  shroud  out  of  their  suffering, 
And  drag  the  corpse  about  with  them  for  years. 
Bat  we? — we  mourn  it  for  a  day  with  tears! 
And  then  we  robe  it  for  its  last  long  rest, 
And  being  women,  feeble  things  at  best, 
We  cannot  dig  the  grave  ourselves.     And  so 
We  call  strong-limbed  New  Love  to  lay  it  low: 
Immortal  sexton  he!  whom  Venus  sends 
To  do  this  service  for  her  earthly  friends. 
The  trusty  fellow  digs  the  grave  so  deep 
Nothing  disturbs  the  dead  laid  there  to  sleep." 

The  laugh  that  followed  had  not-  died  away 
Ere  Roy  Montaine  came  seeking  me,  to  say 
The  band  was  tuning  for  our  waltz,  and  so 
Back  to  the  ball-room  bore  me.     In  the  fflow 

a 

And  heat  and  whirl,  my  strength  ere  long  was  spent, 
And  I  grew  faint  and  dizzy,  and  we  went 
Out  on  the  cool  moonlighted  portico, 
And,  sitting  there,  Roy  drew  my  languid  head 
Upon  the  shelter  of  his  breast,  and  bent 
His  smiling  eyes  upon  me,  as  he  said, 
''I'll  try  the  mesmerism  of  my  touch 


MAUKINE.  69 

To  work  a  cure:  be  very  quiet  now, 
And  let  me  make  some  passes  o'er  your  brow. 
Why,  how  it  throbs!  you've  exercised  too  much! 
I  shall  not  let  you  dance  again  to-night." 

Just  then  before  us,  in  the  broad  moonlight, 
Two  forms  were  mirrored:  and  I  turned  my  face 
To  catch  the  teasing  and  mischievous  glance 
Of  Helen's  eyes,  as,  heated  by  the  dance, 
Leaning  on  Vivian's  arm,  she  sought  this  place. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  came  in  that  round  tone 
Of  his  low  voice.  u  I  think  we  do  intrude." 
Bowing,  they  turned,  and  left  us  quite  alone 
Ere  I  could  speak,  or  change  my  attitude. 


70  MAUKINE. 


PART  V. 

A  visit  to  a  cave  some  miles  away 

Was  next  in  order.     So,  one  sunny  day, 

Four  prancing  steeds  conveyed  a  laughing  load 

Of  merry  pleasure-seekers  o'er  the  road. 

A  basket  picnic,  music  and  croquet 

Were   in    the    programme.     Skies    were   blue  and 

clear, 

And  cool  winds  whispered  of  the  Autumn  near. 
The  merry-makers  filled  the  time  with  pleasure; 
Some  floated  to  the  music's  rhythmic  measure. 
Some  played,  some  promenaded  on  the  green. 

Ticked  off  by  happy  hearts,  the  moments  passed. 
The  afternoon,  all  glow  and  glimmer,  came. 
Helen  and  Roy  were  leaders  of  some  game, 
And  Vivian  was  not  visible. 

u  Maurine, 

I  challenge  yon  to  climb  yon  cliff  with  me! 
And  who  shall  tire,  or  reach  the  summit  last 
Must  pay  a  forfeit,"  cried  a  romping  maid. 
"Come!  start  at  once,  or  own  you  are  afraid." 
So  challenged  I  made  ready  for  the  race, 
Deciding  first  the  forfeit  was  to  be 
A  handsome  pair  of  bootees  to  replace 
The  victor's  loss  who  made  the  rough  ascent. 
The  cliff  was  steep  and  stony.     On  we  went 
As  eagerly  as  if  the  path  was  Fame, 
And  what  we  climbed  for,  glory  and  a  name. 


MAURINE.  71 

My  hands  were  bruised;  my  garments  sadly  rent, 
But  on  I  clambered.     Soon  I  heard  a  cry, 
"Maurine!  Maurine!  my  strength  is  wholly  spent! 
You've  won  the  boots!  I'm  going  back — good-by!'' 
And  back  she  turned,  in  spite  of  laugh  and  jeer. 

I  reached  the  summit:  and  its  solitude, 

Wherein  no  living  creature  did  intrude, 

Save  some  sad  birds  that  wheeled  and  circled   near, 

I  found  far  sweeter  than  the  scene  below. 

Alone  with  One  who  knew  my  hidden  woe, 

I  did  not  feel  so  much  alone  as  when 

I  mixed  with  th'  unthinking  throngs  of  men. 

Some  flowers  that  decked  the  barren,  sterile  place 
I  plucked,  and  read  the  lesson  they  conveyed, 
That  in  our  lives,  albeit  dark  with  shade 
And  rough  and  hard  with  labor,  yet  may  grow 
The  flowers  of  Patience,  Sympathy,  and  Grace. 

As  1  walked  on  in  meditative  thought, 
A  serpent  writhed  across  my  pathway;  not 
A  large  or  deadly  serpent;  yet  the  sight 
Filled  me  with  ghastly  terror  and  affright. 
I  shrieked  aloud:  a  darkness  veiled  my  eyes — 
And  I  fell  fainting  'neath  the  watchful  skies. 

I  was  no  coward.     Country-bred  and  born, 
I  had  no  feeling  but  the  keenest  scorn 
For  those  nne  lady  "  all's  "  and  "  oil's"  of  fear 
So  much  assumed  (when  any  man  is  near). 


72  MAURINE. 

But  God  implanted  in  each  human  heart 

A  natural  horror,  and  a  sickly  dread 

Of  that  accursed,  slimy,  creeping  thing 

That  squirms  a  limbless  carcass  o'er  the  ground. 

And  where  that  inborn  loathing  is  not  found 

You'll  find  the  serpent-qualities  instead. 

Who  fears  it  not,  himself  is  next  of  kin, 

And  in  his  bosom  holds  some  treacherous  art 

Whereby  to  counteract  its  venomed  sting. 

And  all  are  sired  by  Satan — Chief  of  Sin. 

Who  loathes  not  that  foul  creature  of  the  dust, 
However  fair  in  seeming,  I  distrust. 

I  woke  from  my  unconsciousness,  to  know 
I  leaned  upon  a  broad  and  manly  breast, 
And  Vivian's  voice  was  speaking,  soft  and  low, 
Sweet  whispered  words  of  passion,  o'er  and  o'er. 
I  dared  not  breathe.     Had  I  found  Eden's  shore? 
Was  this  a  foretaste  of  eternal  bliss? 
"  My   love,"   he   sighed,  his   voice  like  winds  that 

moan 

Before  a  rain  in  Summer  time,  "  My  own, 
For  one  sweet  stolen  moment,  lie  and  rest 
Upon  this  heart  that  loves  and  hates  you  both! 
O  fair  false  face!     Why  were  you  made  so  fair! 

0  mouth  of  Southern  sweetness!  that  ripe  kiss 
That  hangs  upon  you,  I  do  take  an  oath 

His  lips  shall  never  gather.     There! — and  there! 

1  steal  it  from  him.     Are  you  his — all  his? 


MAURINE.  73 

N"ay  you  are  mine,  this  moment,  as  I  dreamed— 
Blind  tool — believing  you  were  what  you  seemed — 
You  would  be  mine  in  all  the  years  to  come. 
Fair  fiend!     I  love  and  hate  you  in  a  breath. 
O  God!  if  this  white  pallor  were  but  death, 
And  I  were  stretched  beside  you.  cold  and  dumb, 
My  arms  about  you,  so — in  fond  embrace! 
My  lips  pressed,  so — upon  your  dying  face!" 

'  Woman,  how  dare  yon  bring  me  to  such  shame! 
How  dare  you  drive  me  to  an  act  like  this, 
To  steal  from  your  unconscious  lips  the  kiss 
You  lured  me  on  to  think  my  rightful  claim! 

0  frail  and  puny  woman!  could  you  know 
The  devil  that  you  waken  in  the  hearts 
You  snare  and  bind  in  your  enticing  arts, 

The  thin,  pale  stuff  that  in  your  veins  doth  flow 
Would  freeze  in  terror. 

Strange  you  have  such  power 

To  please,  or  pain  us,  poor,  weak,  soulless  things — 
Devoid  of  passion  as  a  senseless  flower! 
Like  butterflies,  your  only  boast,  your  wings. 
There,  now,  I  scorn  you — scorn  you  from  this  hour, 
And  hate  myself  for  having  talked  of  love!" 

He  pushed  me  from  him.  And  I  felt  as  those 
Doomed  angels  must,  when  pearly  gates  above 
Are  closed  against  them. 

With  a  feigned  surprise 

1  started  up  and  opened  wide  my  eyes, 
And  looked  about.     Then  in  confusion  rose 
And  stood  before  him. 


74  MAUHINE. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  pray!" 
He  said  quite  coldly.     "  Half  an  hour  ago 
I  left  you  with  the  company  below, 
And  sought  this  cliff.     A  moment  since  you  cried, 
It  seemed,  in  sudden  terror  and  alarm. 
I  came  in  time  to  see  you  swoon  away. 
You'll  need  assistance  down  the  rugged  side 
Of  this  steep  cliff.     I  pray  you  take  my  arm." 

So,  formal  and  constrained,  we  passed  along, 
Rejoined  our  friends,  and  mingled  with  the  throng 
To  have  no  further  speech  again  that  day. 

Next  morn  there  came  a  bulky  document, 
The  legal  firm  of  Blank  &  Blank  had  sent, 
Containing  news  unlocked  for.     An  estate 
Which  proved  a  cosy  fortune — no-wise  great 
Or  princely — had  in  France  been  left  to  me, 
My  grandsire's  last  descendant.     And  it  brought 
A  sense  of  joy  and  freedom  in  the  thought 
Of  foreign  travel,  which  I  hoped  would  be 
A  panacea  for  my  troubled  mind, 
That  longed  to  leave  the  olden  scenes  behind 
With  all  their  recollections,  and  to  flee 
To  some  strange  country. 

I  was  in  such  haste 

To  put  between  me  and  my  native  land 
The  briny  ocean's  desolating  waste, 
I  gave  Aunt  Ruth  no  peace,  until  she  planned 
To  sail  that  v/eek,  two  months:  though  she  was  fain 
To  wait  until  the  Springtime.     Roy  Montaine 
Would  be  our  ffuide  and  escort. 


MA  URINE.  75 

No  one  dreamed 

The  cause  of  ray  strange  hurry,  but  all  seemed 
To  think  good  fortune  had  quite  turned  my  brain. 
One  bright  October  morning;,  when  the  woods 

o  o? 

Had  donned  their  purple  mantles  and  red  hoods 
In  honor  of  the  Frost  King,  Vivian  came, 
Bringing  some  green  leaves,  tipped  with  crimson 

flame, — 
First  trophies  of  the  Autumn  time. 

And  Roy 

Made  a  proposal  that  we  all  should  go 
And  ramble  in  the  forest  for  a  while. 
But  Helen  said  she  was  not  well — and  so 
Must  stay  at  home.     Then  Vivian,  with  a  smile, 
Responded,  "  I  will  stay  and  talk  to  you, 
And  they  may  go;"  at  which  her  two  cheeks  grew 
Like  twin  blush  roses; — dyed  with  love's  red  wave, 
Her  fair  face  shone  transfigured  with  great  joy. 

And  Vivian  saw — and  suddenly  was  grave. 

Roj  took  my  arm  in  that  protecting  way 
Peculiar  to  some  men,  which  seems  to  say, 
"I  shield  my  own,"  a  manner  pleasing,  e'en 
When  we  are  conscious  that  it  does  not  mean 
More  than  a  simple  courtesy.     A  woman 
Whose  heart  is  wholly  feminine  and  human, 
And  not  unsexed  by  hobbies,  likes  to  be 
The  object  of  that  tender  chivalry, — 
That  guardianship  which  man  bestows  on  her, 
Yet  mixed  with  deference;  as  if  she  were 
Half  child,  half  angel. 


76  MAURINB. 

Though  she  may  be  strong, 
Noble  and  self-reliant,  not  afraid 
To  raise  her  hand  and  voice  against  all  wrong 
And  all  oppression,  yet  if  she  be  made, 
AVith  all  the  independence  of  her  thought, 
A  woman  womanly,  as  God  designed, 
Albeit  she  may  have  as  great  a  mind 
As  man,  her  brother,  yet  his  strength  of  arm, 
His  muscle  and  his  boldness  she  has  not, 
And  cannot  have  without  she  loses  \vhat 
Is  far  more  precious,  modesty  and  grace. 
So,  walking  on  in  her  appointed  place, 
She  does  not  strive  to  ape  him,  nor  pretend 
But  that  she  needs  him  for  a  guide  and  friend, 
To  shield  her  with  his  greater  strength  from  harm 

We  reached  the  forest;  wandered  to  and  fro 
Through  many  a  winding  path  and  dim  retreat, 
Till  I  grew  weary:  when  I  chose  a  seat 
Upon  an  oak  tree,  which  had  been  laid  low 
By  some  wind  storm,  or  by  some  lightning  stroke. 
And  Hoy  stood  just  below  me,  where  the  ledge 
On  which  I  sat  sloped  steeply  to  the  edge 
Of  sunny  meadows  lying  at  my  feet. 
One  hand  held  mine;  the  other  grasped  a  limb 
That  cast  its  checkered  shadows  over  him; 
And,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his  dark  eyes  raised 
And  fixed  upon  me,  silently  he  gazed 
Until  I,  smiling,  turned  to  him  and  spoke: 
"  Give  words,  my  cousin,  to  those  thoughts  that  rise, 
And,  like  dumb  spirits,  look  forth  from  your  eyes." 


MAUKJLNE.  7? 

The  smooth  and  even  darkness  of  his  cheek 

Was  stained  one  moment  by  a  flush  of  red. 

He  swayed  his  lithe  form  nearer  as  he  stood 

Still  clinging  to  the  branch  above  his  head. 

His  brilliant  eyes  grew  darker;  and  he  said, 

With  sudden  passion,  "  Do  you  bid  me  speak? 

I  can  not,  then,  keep  silence  if  I  would. 

That  hateful  fortune,  coming  as  it  did, 

Forbade  my  speaking  sooner;  for  I  knew 

A  harsh-tongued  world  would  quickly  misconstrue 

My  motive  for  a  meaner  one.     But,  sweet, 

So  big  my  heart  has  grown  with  love  for  you 

I  can  not  shelter  it,  or  keep  it  hid. 

And  so  I  cast  it  throbbing  at  your  feet, 

For  you  to  guard  and  cherish,  or  to  break. 

Maurine,  I  love  you  better  than  my  life. 

My  friend — my  cousin — be  still  more,  my  wife! 

Maurine,  Maurine,  what  answer  do  you  make?  " 

I  scarce  could  breathe  for  wonderment;  and  numb 
With  truth  that  fell  too  suddenly,  sat  dumb 
With  sheer  amaze,  and  stared  at  Roy  with  eyes 
That  looked  no  feeling  but  complete  surprise. 
He  swayed  so  near  his  breath  was  on  my  cheek. 
•'  Maurine,  Maurine,"  he  whispered,  "  will  you  speak?'' 

Then  suddenly,  as  o'er  some  magic  glass 
One  picture  in  a  score  of  shapes  will  pass, 
I  seemed  to  see  Roy  glide  before  my  gaze. 
First,  as  the  playmate  of  my  earlier  days — 


78  MAURIKE. 

Next,  as  my  kin — and  then  my  valued  friend, 
And  last,  my  lover.     As  when  colors  blend 
In  some  unlooked-for  group  before  our  eyes, 
"We  hold  the  glass,  and  look  them  o'er  and  o'er 
So  now  I  gazed  on  Roy  in  his  new  guise, 
In  which  he  ne'er  appeared  to  me  before. 

His  form  was  like  a  panther's  in  its  grace, 
So  lithe  and  supple,  and  of  medium  height, 
And  garbed  in  all  the  elegance  of  fashion. 
His  large  black  eyes  were  full  of  fire  and  passion, 
And  in  expression  fearless,  firm,  and  bright. 
His  hair  was  like  the  very  deeps  of  night, 
And  hung  in  raven  clusters  'round  a  face 
Of  dark  and  flashing  beauty. 

He  was  more 

Like  some  romantic  maiden's  grand  ideal 
Than  like  a  common  being.     As  I  gazed 
Upon  the  handsome  face  to  mine  upraised, 
I  saw  before  me,  living,  breathing,  real, 
The  hero  of  my  early  day-dreams:  though 
So  full  my  heart  was  with  that  clear-cut  face, 
Which,  all  unlike,  yet  claimed  the  hero's  place, 
I  had  not  recognized  him  so  before, 
Or  thought  of  him,  save  as  a  valued  friend. 
So  now  I  called  him,  adding, 

"Foolish  boy! 

Each  word  of  love  you  utter  aims  a  blow 
At  that  sweet  trust  I  had  reposed  in  you. 
I  was  so  certain  I  had  found  a  true, 


MAUKINE.  79 

Steadfast  man  friend,  on  whom  I  could  depend, 
And  go  on  wholly  trusting,  to  the  end. 
Why  did  you  shatter  my  delusion,  Roy, 
By  turning  to  a  lover?" 

"Why,  indeed! 

Because  I  loved  you  more  than  any  brother, 
Or  any  friend  could  love."     Then  he  began 
To  argue  like  a  lawyer,  and  to  plead 
With  all  his  eloquence.     And,  listening, 
I  strove  to  think  it  was  a  goodly  thing 
To  be  so  fondly  loved  by  such  a  man, 
And  it  were  best  to  give  his  wooing  heed, 
And  not  deny  him.     Then  before  my  eyes 
In  all  its  clear-cut  majesty,  that  other 
Haughty  and  poet-handsome  face  would  rise 
And  rob  my  purpose  of  all  life  and  strength. 

Roy  urged  and  argued,  as  Roy  only  could, 
With  that  impetuous,  boyish  eloquence. 
He  held  my  hands,  and  vowed  I  must,  and  should 
Give  some  least  hope;  till,  in  my  own  defense, 
I  turned  upon  him,  and  replied  at  length: 
"  I  thank  you  for  the  noble  heart  you  offer: 
But  it  deserves  a  true  one  in  exchange. 
I  could  love  you  if  I  loved  not  another 
Who  keeps  my  heart;  so  I  have  none  to  proffer.' 

Then,  seeing  how  his  dark  eyes  flashed,  I  said, 
"  Dear  Roy!  I  know  my  words  seem  very  strange; 
But  I  love  one  I  cannot  hope  to  wed. 
A  river  rolls  between  us,  dark  and  deep. 
6 


80 


To  cross  it  —  were  to  stain  with  blood  my  hand. 
You  force  my  speech  on  what  1  fain  would  keep 
In  my  own  bosom,  but  you  understand? 
My  heart  is  given  to  love  that's  sanctified, 
And  now  can  feel  no  other. 

Be  you  kind 

Dear  Roy,  my  brother!  speak  of  this  no  more, 
Lest  pleading  and  denying  should  divide 
The  hearts  so  long  united.     Let  me  find 
In  you  my  cousin  and  my  friend  of  yore 
And  now  come  home.     The  morning,  all  too  soon 
And  unperceived,  has  melted  into  noon. 
Helen  will  miss  us,  and  we  must  return." 

lie  took  my  hand,  and  helped  me  to  arise, 

Smiling  upon  me  with  his  sad  dark  eyes, 

Where  passion's  fires  had,  sudden,  ceased  to  burn. 

"  And  so,"  he  said,  "  too  soon  and  unforeseen 
My  friendship  melted  into  love,  Maurine. 
But,  sweet!  I  am  not  wholly  in  the  blame, 
For  what  you  term  my  folly.     You  forgot, 
So  long  we'd  known  each  other,  I  had  not 
In  truth  a  brother's  or  a  cousin's  claim. 
But  I  remembered,  when  through  every  nerve 
Your  lightest  touch  went  thrilling;  and  began 
To  love  you  with  that  human  love  of  man 
For  comely  woman.     By  your  coaxing  arts, 
You  won  your  way  into  my  heart  of  hearts, 
And  all  Platonic  feelings  put  to  rout. 
A  maid  should  never  lay  aside  reserve 


MAUEINE.  81 

Witli  one  who's  not  her  kinsman,  out  and  out. 

But  as  we  now,  with  measured  steps,  retrace 

The  path  we  came,  e?en  so  my  heart  I'll  send, 

At  your  command,  back  to  the  olden  place, 

And  strive  to  love  you  only  as  a  friend." 

I  felt  the  justice  of  his  mild  reproof, 

But  answered  laughing,  '"  'T  is  the  same  old  cry: 

k  The  woman  tempted  me,  and  I  did  eat.' 
Since  Adam's  time  we've  heard  it.     But  I'll  try 
And  be  more  prudent,  sir,  and  hold  aloof 
The  fruit  I  never  once  had  thought  so  sweet 

'  T  would  tempt  you  any.     Now  go  dress  for  dinner, 
Thou  sinned  against!    as  also  will  the  sinner. 
And  guard  each  act,  that  no  least  look  betray 
What's  passed  between  us." 

Then  I  turned  away 

And  sought  my  room,  low  humming  some  old  air 
That  ceased  upon  the  threshold;  for  mine  eyes 
Fell  on  a  face  so  glorified  and  fair 
All  other  senses,  merged  in  that  of  sight, 
Were  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  bright 
\nd  wond'rous  picture,  which  had  otherwise 
Made  dim  my  vision. 

Waiting  in  my  room, 
Her  whole  face  lit  as  by  an  inward  flame 
That  shed  its  halo  'round  her,  Helen  stood ; 
Her  fair  hands  folded  1  ike  a  lily's  leaves 
Weighed  down  by  happy  dews  of  summer  eves. 
Upon  her  cheek  the  color  went  and  came 
As  sunlight  flickers  o'er  a  bed  of  bloom ; 


d2  MAURINE. 

And,  like  some  slim  young  sapling  of  the  wood, 
Her  slender  form  leaned  slightly;  and  her  hair 
Fell  'round  her  loosely,  in  long  curling  strands 
All  unconn'ned,  and  as  by  loving  hands 
Tossed  into  bright  confusion. 

Standing  there, 

Her  starry  eyes  uplifted,  she  did  seem 
Like  some  unearthly  creature  of  a  dream ; 
Until  she  started  forward,  gliding  slowly, 
And  broke  the  breathless  silence,  speaking  lowly, 
As  one  grown  meek,  and  humble  in  an  hour, 
Bowing  before  some  new  and  mighty  power. 

"  Maurine,  Maurine!"  she  murmured,  and  again, 
"Maurine,  my  own  sweet  friend,  Maurine!" 

And  then, 

Laying  her  love  light  hands  upon  my  head, 
She  leaned,  and  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  said 
"With  voice  that  bore  her  joy  in  ev'ry  tone, 
As  winds  that  blow  across  a  garden  bed 
Are  weighed  with  fragrance,  "  He  is  mine  alone, 
And  I  am  his — all  his — his  very  own. 
So  pledged  this  hour,  by  that  most  sacred  tie 
Save  one  beneath  God's  over-arching  sky. 
I  could  not  wait  to  tell  you  of  my  bliss: 
I  want  your  blessing,  sweetheart!  and  your  kiss." 
So  hiding  my  heart's  trouble  with  a  smile, 
I  leaned  and  kissed  her  dainty  mouth;  the  while 
I  felt  a  guilt-joy,  as  of  some  sweet  sin, 
When  my  lips  fell  where  his  so  late  had  been. 


MAURINE.  83 

And  all  day  long  I  bore  about  with  me 

A  sense  of  shame — vet  mixed  with  satisfaction, 

As  some  starved  child  might  steal  a  loaf,  and  be 

Sad  with  the  guilt  resulting  from  her  action, 

While  yet  the  morsel  in  her  mouth  was  sweet. 

That  ev'ning  when  the  house  had  settled  down 

To  sleep  arid  quiet,  to  my  room  there  crept 

A  lithe  young  form,  robed  in  a  lung  white  gown: 

"With  steps  like  fall  of  thistle-down  she  came, 

Her  mouth  smile-wreathed ;  and,  breathing  low  my 

name, 
Nestled  in  graceful  beauty  at  my  feet. 

"  Sweetheart,"  she  murmured  softly,  "  ere  I  sleep, 
I  needs  must  tell  you  all  my  tale  of  joy. 
Beginning  where  you  left  us — you  and  Roy. 
You  saw  the  color  flame  upon  my  cheek 
When  Vivian  spoke  of  staying.     So  did  he; — 
And,  when  we  were  alone,  he  gazed  at  me 
With  such  a  strange  look  in  his  wond'rous  eyes. 
The  silence  deepened;  and  I  tried  to  speak 
Upon  some  common  topic,  but  could  not, 
My  heart  was  in  such  tumult. 

In  this  wise 

Five  happy  moments  glided  by  us,  fraught 
With  hours  of  feeling.     Vivian  rose  up  then, 
And  came  and  stood  by  me,  and  stroked  my  hair. 
And,  in  his  low  voice,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Said, '  Helen,  little  Helen,  frail  and  fair.' 
Then  took   iny  face,  and  turned  it  to  the  light, 


84  MA  URINE. 

And  looking  in  my  eyes,  and  seeing  what 
Was  shining  from  them,  murmured,  sweet  and  low, 
•  Dear  eyes,  you  cannot  veil  the  truth  from  sight. 
You  love  me,  Helen!  answer,  is  it  so?' 
And  I  made  answer  straightway,  '  With  my  life 
And  soul  and  strength  I  love  you,  O  my  love!' 
lie  leaned  and  took  me  gently  to  his  breast, 
And  said,  '  Here  then  this  dainty  head  shall  rest 
Henceforth  forever:  O  my  little  dove! 
My  lily-bud — my  fragile  blossom- wife!' 

"  And  then  I  told  him  all  my  thoughts ;  and  he 
Listened,  with  kisses  for  his  comments,  till 
My  tale  was  finished.     Then  he  said,  '  I  will 
Be  frank  with  you,  my  darling,  from  the  start, 
And  hide  no  secret  from  you  in  my  heart. 
I  love  you  Helen,  but  you  are  not  first 
To  rouse  that  love  to  being.     Ere  we  met 
I  loved  a  woman  madly — never  dreaming 
She  was  not  all  in  truth  she  was  in  seeming. 
Enough!  she  proved  to  be  that  thing  accursed 
Of  God  and  man — a  wily  vain  coquette. 
I  hate  myself  for  having  loved  her.     Yet 
So  much  my  heart  spent  on  her,  it  must  give 
A  love  less  ardent,  and  less  prodigal, 
Albeit  just  as  tender  and  as  true — 
A  milder,  yet  a  faithful  love  to  you. 
Just  as  some  evil  fortune  might  befall 
A  man's  great  riches,  causing  him  to  live 
In  some  low  cot,  all  unpretending,  still 


MAURINE.  85 

As  much  his  home — as  much  his  loved  retreat, 
As  was  the  princely  palace  on  the  hill, 
E'en  so  I  give  you  all  that's  left,  my  sweet! 
Of  my  heart-fortune.' 

'  That  were  more  to  me,' 
I  made  swift  smiling  answer, '  than  to  be 
The  worshiped  consort  of  a  king.'     And  so 
Oar  faith  was  pledged.     But  Vivian  would  not  go 
Until  I  vowed  to  wed  him  New  Year  day. 
And  I  am  sad  because  you  go  away 
Before  that  time.     I  shall  not  feel  half  wed 
Without  you  here.     Postpone  your  trip  and  stay, 
And  be  my  bridesmaid." 

"  Nay,  I  cannot,  dear! 

'T  would  disarrange  our  plans  for  half  a  year. 
I'll  be  in  Europe  New  Year  day,"  I  said, 

"  And  send  congratulations  by  the  cable." 
And  from  my  soul  thanked  Providence  for  sparing 
The  pain,  to  me,  of  sharing  in,  and  wearing 
The  festal  garments  of  H  wedding  scene, 
While  all  my  heart  was  hung  with  sorrow's  sable. 
Forgetting  for  a  season,  that  between 
The  cup  and  lip  lies  many  a  chance  of  loss, 
I  lived  in  my  near  future,  confident 
All  would  be  as  I  planned  it;  and,  across 
The  briny  waste  of  waters,  I  should  find 
Some  balm  and  comfort  for  my  troubled  mind. 
The  sad  Fall  days,  like  maidens  auburn-tressed 
And  amber-eyed,  in  purple  garments  dressed, 
Passed  by,  and  dropped  their  tears  upon  the  tomb 
Of  fair  Queen  Summer,  buried  in  her  bloom. 


86  MATJRINE. 

Roy  left  us  for  a  time,  and  Helen  went 
To  make  the  nuptial  preparations.     Then, 
Aunt  Ruth  complained  one  day  of  feeling  ill: 
Her  veins  ran  red  with  fever;  and  the  skill 
Of  two  physicians  could  not  stem  the  tide. 
The  house,  that  rang  so  late  with  laugh  and  jest, 
Grew  ghostly  with  low  whispered  sounds:  and  when 
The  Autumn  day,  that  I  had  thought  to  be 
Bounding  upon  the  billows  of  the  sea, 
Came  sobbing  in,  it  found  me  pale  and  worn, 
Striving  to  keep  away  that  unloved  guest 
AVho  comes  unbidden,  making  hearts  to  mourn. 

Through  all  the  anxious  weeks  I  watched  beside 
The  sufPrer's couch,  Roy  was  my  help  and  stay; 
Others  were  kind,  but  he  alone  each  day 
Brought  strength  and  comfort,  by  his  cheerful  face, 
And  hopeful  words,  that  fell  in  that  sad  place 
Like  rays  of  light  upon  a  darkened  way. 
November  passed;  and  Winter,  crisp  and  chill, 
In  robes  of  ermine  walked  on  plain  and  hill. 
Returning  light  and  life  dispelled  the  gloom 
That  cheated  Death  had  brought  us  from  the  tomb. 
Aunt  Ruth  was  saved,  and  slowly  getting  better — 
"Was  dressed  each  day,  and  walked  about  the  room. 
Then  came  one  morning  in  the  Eastern  mail, 
A  little  white-wTinged  birdling  of  a  letter. 
I  broke  the  seal  and  read, 

"  Maurine,  my  own! 
I  hear  Aunt  Ruth  is  better,  and  am  glad. 
I  felt  so  sorry  for  you ;  and  so  sad 


MATT  BINE. 

To  think  I  left  you  when  I  did — alone 

To  bear  your  pain  and  worry,  and  those  nights 

Of  weary,  anxious  watching. 

Vivian  writes 

Four  plans  are  changed  now,  arid  you  will  not  sail 
Before  the  Springtime.     So  you'll  come  and  be 
My  bridesmaid,  darling!  Do  not  say  me  nay. 
But  three  weeks  more  of  girlhood  left  to  me. 

o 

Come,  if  you  can,  just  two  weeks  from  to-day, 
And  make  your  preparations  here.     My  sweet! 
Indeed  I  am  not  glad  Aunt  Ruth  was  ill — 
I'm  sorry  she  has  suffered  so;  and  still 
I'm  thankful  something  happened,  so  you  stayed. 
I'm  sure  my  wedding  would  be  incomplete 
Without  your  presence.     Selfish,  I'm  afraid 
You'll  think  your  Helen.     But  I  love  you  so, 
How  can  I  be  quite  willing  you  should  go? 
Come  Christmas  Eve,  or  earlier.     Let  me  know 
And  I  will  meet  you,  dearie!  at  the  train. 
Your  happy,  loving  Helen." 

Then  the  pain 

That,  hidden  under  later  pain  and  care, 
Had  made  no  moan,  but  silent,  seemed  to  sleep, 
Woke  from  its  trance-like  lethargy,  to  steep 
My  tortured  heart  in  anguish  and  despair. 

I  had  relied  too  fully  on  my  skill 
In  bending  circumstances  to  my  will: 
And  now  I  was  rebuked  and  made  to  see 
That  God  alone  knowetb  what  is  to  be. 


88  M  A  U  II I  N  E. 

Then  came  a  messenger  from  Vivian,  who 

Came  not  himself,  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 

But  sent  his  servant  each  new  day  to  bring 

A  kindly  message,  or  an  offering 

Of  juicy  fruits  to  cool  the  lips  of  fever, 

Or  dainty  hot-house  blossoms,  with  their  bloom 

To  brighten  np  the  convalescent's  room. 

But  now  the  servant  only  brought  a  line 

From  Vivian  Dangertield  to  Roy  Montaine, 

'"  Dear  Sir,  and  Friend" — in  letters  bold  and  plain, 
Written  on  cream-white  paper,  so  it  ran : 

"  It  is  the  will  and  pleasure  of  Miss  Trevor, 
And  therefore  doubly  so  a  wish  of  mine, 
That  you  shall  honor  me  next  New  Year  Eve, 
My  wedding  hour,  by  standing  as  best  man. 
Miss  Trevor  has  six  bridesmaids  I  believe. 
Being  myself  a  novice  in  the  art — 
If  I  should  fail  in  acting  well  my  part, 
I'll  need  protection  'gainst  the  regiment 
Of  outraged  ladies.     So,  I  pray,  consent 
To  stand  by  me  in  time  of  need,  and  shield 
Your  friend  sincerely,  Vivian  Dangertield." 

The  last  least  hope  had  vanished;  I  must  drain, 
E'en  to  the  dregs,  this  bitter  cup  of  pain. 


MAUKIKE.  8V) 


PART  VI. 

There  was  a  week  of  bustle  and  of  hurry; 
A  stately  home  echoed  to  voices  sweet, 
Calling,  replying;  and  to  tripping  feet 
Of  busy  bridesmaids,  running  to  and  fro, 
With  all  that  girlish  fluttering  and  flurry 
Preceding  such  occasions. 

Helen's  room 

Was  like  a  lily-garden,  all  in  bloom, 
Decked  with  the  dainty  robes  of  her  trousseau. 
My  robe  was  fashioned  by  swift,  skillful  liands- 
A  thing  of  beauty,  elegant  and  rich, 
A  mystery  of  loopings,  puffs  and  bands; 
And  as  I  watched  it  growing,  stitch  by  stitch, 
I  felt  as  one  might  feel  who  should  behold 
With  vision  trance-like,  where  his  body  lay 
In  deathly  slumber,  simulating  clay, 
His  grave-cloth  sewed  together,  fold  on  fold. 

I  lived  with  ev'ry  nerve  upon  the  strain. 
As  men  go  into  battle;  and  the  pain, 
That,  more  and  more,  to  my  sad  heart  re  veal  °d 
Grew  ghastly  with  its  horrors,  was  concealed 
From  mortal  eyes  by  superhuman  power, 
That  God  bestowed  upon  me,  hour  by  hour. 

What  night  the  Old  Year  gave  unto  the  New 
The  key  of  human  happiness  and  woe, 
The  pointed  stars,  upon  their  field  of  blue, 
Shone,  white  and  perfect,  o'er  a  world  below, 


e  MAUEINE. 

Of  snow-clad  beauty;  all  the  trees  were  dressed 
In  gleaming  garments,  decked  with  diadems, 
Each  seeming  like  a  bridal-bidden  guest, 
Coming  o'er-laden  with  a  gift  of  gems. 

The  bustle  of  the  dressing-room;  the  sound 

Of  eager  voices  in  discourse;  the  clang 

Of  "  sweet  bells  jangled  ";  thud  of  steel-clad  feet 

That  beat  swift  music  on  the  frozen  ground — 

All  blent  together  in  my  brain,  and  rang 

A  medley  of  strange  noises,  incomplete, 

And  full  of  discords. 

Then  out  on  the  night 
Streamed  from  the  open  vestibule,  a  light 
That  lit  the  velvet  blossoms  which  we  trod, 
"With  all  the  hues  of  those  that  deck  the  sod. 
The  grand  cathedral  windows  were  ablaze 
With  gorgeous  colors;  through  a  sea  of  bloom> 
Up  the  long  aisle,  to  join  the  waiting  groom, 
The  bridal  cortege  passed. 

As  some  lost  soul 

Might  surge  on  with  the  curious  crowd,  to  gaze 
Upon  its  coffined  body,  so  I  went 
"Wil.h  that  glad  festal  throng.     The  organ  sent 
Great  waves  of  melody  along  the  air, 
That  broke  and  fell,  in  liquid  drops,  like  spray, 
On  happy  hearts  that  listened.     But  to  me 
It  sounded  faintly,  as  if  miles  away, 
A  troubled  spirit,  sitting  in  despair 
Beside  the  sad  and  ever-moaning  sea. 
Gave  utterance  to  sighing  sounds  of  dole. 


MAURINE.  91 

We  paused  before  the  altar.     Framed  in  flowers, 
The  white-robed  man  of  God  stood  forth. 

I  heard 

The  solemn  service  open;  through  long  hours 
I  seemed  to  stand  and  listen,  while  each  word 
Fell  on  my  ear  as  falls  the  sound  of  clay 
Upon  the  coffin  of  the  worshiped  dead. 
The  stately  father  gave  the  bride  away: 
The  bridegroom  circled  with  a  golden  band 
The  taper  linger  of  her  dainty  hand. 
The  last  imposing,  binding  words  were  said — 
1  What  God  has  joined  let  no  man  put  asunder  " — 
And  all  my  strife  with  self  was  at  an  end; 
My  lover  was  the  husband  of  my  friend. 

How  strangely,  in  some  awful  hour  of  pain, 
External  trifles  with  our  sorrows  blend! 
I  never  hear  the  mighty  organ's  thunder, 
I  never  catch  the  scent  of  heliotrope, 
Nor  see  stained  windows  all  ablaze  with  light, 
Without  that  dizzy  whirling  of  the  brain, 
And  all  the  ghastly  feeling  of  that  night, 
When  iny  sick  heart  relinquished  love  and  hope. 

The  pain  we  feel  so  keenly  may  depart, 
And  e'en  its  memory  cease  to  haunt  the  heart; 
But  some  slight  thing,  a  perfume,  or  a  sound 
Will  probe  the  closed  recesses  of  the  wound, 
And  for  a  moment  bring  the  old-time  smart. 


92  MAURINE. 

Congratulations,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles, 

(j ood  byes  and  farewells  given;  then  across 

The  snowy  waste  of  weary  wintry  miles, 

Back  to  my  girlhood's  home,  where,  through  each 

room, 

For  evermore  pale  phantoms  of  delight 
Should  aimless  wander,  always  in  my  sight, 
Pointing,  with  ghostly  fingers,  to  the  tomb 
Wet  with  the  tears  of  living  pain  and  loss. 

The  sleepless  nights  of  watching  and  of  care, 
Followed  by  that  one  week  of  keenest  pain, 
Taxing  my  weakened  system,  and  my  brain, 
Brought  on  a  ling'ring  illness. 

Day  by  day, 

In  that  strange,  apathetic  state  I  lay, 
Of  mental  and  of  physical  despair. 
I  had  no  pain,  no  fever,  and  no  chill, 
But  lay  without  ambition,  strength,  or  will, 
Knowing  no  wish  for  anything  but  rest, 
Which  seemed,  of  all  God's  store  of  gifts,  the  best. 

Physicians  came  and  shook  their  heads  and  sighed; 
And  to  their  score  of  questions  I  replied, 
With  but  one  languid  answer,  o'er  and  o'er, 
"  I  am  so  weary — weary — nothing  more." 

I  slept,  and  dreamed  I  was  some  feathered  thing, 
Flying  through  space  with  ever-aching  wing, 
Seeking  a  ship  called  Rest,  all  snowy  white, 
That  sailed  and  sailed  before  me,  just  in  sight, 


MAURINE.  93 

But  always  one  unchanging  distance  kept, 
And  woke  more  weary  than  before  I  slept. 

I  slept,  and  dreamed  I  ran  to  win  a  prize, 

A  hand  from  heaven  held  down  before  my  eyes. 

All  eagerness  I  sought  it — it  was  gone, 

But  shone  in  all  its  beauty  farther  on. 

I  ran,  and  ran,  and  ran,  in  eager  quest 

Of  that  great  prize,  whereon  was  written  "  rest," 

Which  ever  just  beyond  my  reach  did  gleam, 

And  wakened  doubly  weary  with  nay  dream. 

I  dreamed  I  was  a  crystal  drop  of  rain, 

That  saw  a  snow-white  lily  on  the  plain, 

And  left  the  cloud  to  nestle  in  her  breast. 

I  fell  and  fell,  but  nevermore  found  rest — 

I  fell  and  fell,  but  found  no  stopping  place, 

Through  leagues  and  leagues  of  never-ending  space, 

While  space  illimitable  stretched  before. 

And  all  these  dreams  but  wearied  rne  the  more. 

Familiar  voices  sounded  in  my  room — 

Aunt  Ruth's,  and  Roy's,  and  Helen's:    but  they 

seemed 

A  part  of  some  strange  fancy  I  had  dreamed, 
And  now  remembered  dimly. 

Wrapped  in  gloom, 

My  mind,  o'er-taxed,  lost  hold  of  time  at  last, 
Ignored  its  future,  and  forgot  its  past, 


94  MATT  BINE. 

And  groped  along  the  present,  as  a  light, 
Carried,  uncovered,  through  the  fogs  of  night, 
Will  flicker  faintly. 

But  I  felt,  at  length, 
When  March  winds  brought  vague  rumors  of  the 

spring, 

A  certain  sense  of  "restlessness  with  rest." 
My  aching  frame  was  weary  of  repose, 
And  wanted  action. 

Then  slow-creeping  strength 
Came  back  with  Mem'ry,  hand  in  hand,  to  bring 
And  lay  upon  my  sore  and  bleeding  breast, 
Grim-visaged  Recollection's  thorny  rose. 
.  I  gained,  and  failed.     One  day  could  ride  and  \valk. 
The  next  would  find  me  prostrate;  while  a  flock 
Of  ghostly  thoughts,  like  phantom  birds,  would  flit 
About  the  chambers  of  my  heart,  or  sit, 
Pale  spectres  of  the  past,  with  folded  wings, 
Perched,  silently,  upon  the  voiceless  strings, 
That  once  resounded  to  Hope's  happy  lays. 

So  passed  the  ever-changing  April  days. 
When  May  came,  lightsome  footed,  o'er  the  lea, 
Accompanied  by  kind  Aunt  Ruth  and  Roy, 
I  bade  farewell  to  home  with  secret  joy, 
And  turned  my  wan  face  eastward  to  the  sea. 
Roy  planned  our  route  of  travel:  for  all  lands 
Were  one  to  him.     Or  Egypt's  burning  sands, 
Or  Alps  of  Switzerland,  or  stately  Rome, 
All  were  iamiliar  as  the  fields  of  home. 


MA  URINE.  95 

There  was  a  year  of  wand'ring  to  and  fro, 
Like  restless  spirits;  scaling  mountain  heights; 
Dwelling  among  the  countless,  rare  delights 
Of  lands  historic;  turning  dusty  pages. 
Stamped  with  the  tragedies  of  mighty  ages; 
Gazing  upon  the  scenes  of  bloody  acts, 
Of  kings  long  buried — bare,  unvarnished  facts, 
Surpassing  wildest  fictions  of  the  brain; 
Rubbing  against  all  people,  high  and  low, 
Arid  by  this  contact  feeling  Self  to  grow 
Smaller  and  less  important,  and  the  vein 
Of  human  kindness  deeper,  seeing  God, 
Unto  the  humble  delver  of  the  sod, 
And  to  the  ruling  monarch  on  the  throne, 
Has  given  hope,  ambition,  joy,  and  pain, 
And  that  all  hearts  have  feelings  like  our  own. 

There  is  no  school  that  disciplines  the  mind, 
And  broadens  thought,  like  contact  with  mankind. 
The  college-prisoned  greybeard,  who  has  burned 
The   midnight  lamp,  and  book-bound   knowledge 

learned, 

Till  sciences  or  classics  hold  no  lore 
He  has  not  conned  and  studied,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Is  but  a  babe  in  wisdom,  when  compared 
With  some  unlettered  wand'rer,  who  has  shared 
The  hospitalities  of  every  land; 
Felt  touch  of  brother  in  each  proffered  hand; 
Made  man  his  study,  and  the  world  his  college. 
And  gained  this  grand  epitome  of  knowledge: 
7 


6  MAURINfe. 

Each  human  being  has  a  heart  and  soul, 

And  self  is  but  an  atom  of  the  whole. 

I  hold  he  is  best  learned  and  most  wise, 

Who  best  and  most  can  love  and  sympathize. 

Book-wisdom  makes  us  vain  and  self-contained; 

Our  banded  minds  go  round  in  little  grooves; 

But  constant  friction  with  the  world  removes 

These  iron  foes  to  freedom,  and  we  rise 

To  grander  heights,  and,  all  untrammeled,  tind 

A  better  atmosphere  and  clearer  skies; 

And  through  its  broadened  realm,  no  longer  chained, 

Thought  travels  freely,  leaving  Self  behind. 

"Where'er  we  chanced  to  wander  or  to  roam, 
Glad  letters  came  from  Helen;  happy  things, 
Like  little  birds  that  followed  on  swift  wings, 
Bringing  their  tender  messages  from  home. 
Her  days  were  poems,  beautiful,  complete. 
The  rhythm  perfect,  and  the  burden  sweet. 
She  was  so  happy — happy,  and  so  blest. 

My  heart  had  found  contentment  in  that  year. 
With  health  restored,  my  life  seemed  full  of  cheer 
The  heart  of  youth  turns  ever  to  the  light; 
Sorrow  and  gloom  may  curtain  it  like  night, 
But,  in  its  very  anguish  and  unrest, 
It  beats  and  tears  the  pall-like  folds  away, 
And  finds  again  the  sunlight  of  the  day. 

And  yet,  despite  the  changes  without  measure, 
Despite  sight-seeing,  round  on  round  of  pleasure; 


MAUBINE.  9? 

Despite  new  friends,  new  suitors,  still  my  heart 
Was  conscious  of  a  something  lacking,  where 
Love  once  had  dwelt,  and  afterward  despair. 
Now  love  was  buried;  and  despair  had  flown 
Before  the  healthful  zephyrs  that  had  blown 
From  heights  serene  and  lofty;  and  the  place 
Where  both  had  dwelt,  was  empty,  voiceless  space. 
And  so  I  took  my  long-loved  study,  art, 
The  dreary  vacuum  in  my  life  to  fill, 
And  worked,  and  labored,  with  a  right  good  will. 
Aunt  Ruth  and  I  took  rooms  in  Rome;  while  Roy 
Lingered  in  Scotland,  with  his  new-found  joy. 
A  dainty  little  lassie,  Grace  Kildare, 
Had  snared  him  in  her  flossy,  flaxen  hair, 
And  made  him  captive. 

We  were  thrown,  by  chance. 
In  contact  with  her  people  while  in  France 
The  previous  season:  she  was  wholly  sweet 
And  fair  and  gentle;  so  naive,  and  yet 
So  womanly,  she  was  at  once  the  pet 
Of  all  our  party;  and,  ere  many  days, 
Won  by  her  fresh  face,  and  her  artless  ways, 
Roy  fell  a  helpless  captive  at  her  feet. 
Her  home  was  in  the  Highlands;  and  she  came 
Of  good  old  stock,  of  fair  untarnished  fame. 

Through  all  these  months  Roy  had  been  true  as  steel ; 
And  by  his  every  action  made  me  feel 
He  was  my  friend  and  brother,  and  no  more. 
The  same  big-souled  and  trusty  friend  of  yore. 
Yet,  in  my  secret  heart,  I  wished  1  knew 


98  MAURINE. 

Whether  the  love  he  felt  one  time  was  dead, 

Or  only  hidden,  for  my  sake,  from  view. 

So  when  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  said, 

The  velvet  blackness  of  his  eyes  ashine 

With  light  of  love  and  triumph:  "  Cousin,  mine, 

Congratulate  me!     She  whom  I  adore 

Has  pledged  to  me  the  promise  of  her  hand; 

Her  heart  I  have  already,"  I  was  glad 

With  double  gladness,  for  it  freed  my  mind 

Of  fear  that  he,  in  secret,  might  be  sad. 

From  March  till  June  had  left  her  moons  behind, 
And  merged  her  rose-red  beauty  in  Juljr, 
There  was  no  message  from  my  native  land. 
Then  came  a  few  brief  lines,  by  Vivian  penned: 
Death  had  been  near  to  Helen,  but  passed  by; 
The  danger  was  now  over.     God  was  kind; 
The  mother  and  the  child  were  both  alive; 
No  other  child  was  ever  known  to  thrive 
As  throve  this  one,  nurse  had  been  heard  to  say. 
The  infant  was  a  wonder,  every  way. 
And,  at  command  of  Helen,  he  would  send 
A  lock  of  baby's  golden  hair  to  me. 
And  did  I,  on  my  honor,  ever  see 
Such  hair  before?     Helen  would  write,  ere  long: 
She  gained  quite  slowly,  but  would  soon  be  strung- 
Stronger  than  ever,  so  the  doctors  said. 
I  took  the  tiny  ringlet,  golden — fair, 
Mayhap  his  hand  had  severed  from  the  head 
Of  his  own  child,  and  pressed  it  to  my  cheek 
And  to  my  lips,  and  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er. 


MATT  HIKE.  99 

All  my  maternal  instincts  seemed  to  rise, 
And  clamor  for  their  rights,  while  my  wet  eyes, 
Rained  tears  upon  the  silken  tress  of  hair. 
The  woman  struggled  with  her  heart  before! 
It  was  the  mother  in  me  now  did  speak, 
Moaning,  like  Rachel,  that  her  babes  were  not, 
And  crying  out  against  her  barren  lot. 

Once  I  bemoaned  the  long  and  lonely  years 
That  stretched  before  me,  dark  with  love's  eclipse; 
And  thought  how  myunmated  heart  would  miss 
The  shelter  of  a  broad  and  manly  breast — 
The  strong,  bold  arm — the  tender  clinging  kiss — 
And  all  pure  love's  possessions,  manifold; 
But  now  I  wept  a  flood  of  bitter  tears, 
Thinking  of  little  heads  of  shining  gold, 
That  would  not  on  my  bosom  sink  to  rest; 
Of  little  hands  that  would  not  touch  my  cheek; 
Of  little  lisping  voices,  and  sweet  lips, 
That  never  in  my  list'ning  ear  would  speak 
The  blessed  name  of  mother. 

Oh,  in  woman 

How  mighty  is  the  love  of  offspring!     Ere 
Unto  her  wond'ring,  untaught  mind  unfolds 
The  myst'ry  that  is  half  divine,  half  human, 
Of  life  and  birth,  the  love  of  unborn  souls 
Within  her,  and  the  mother-yearning  creeps 
Through  her  warm  heart,  and  stirs  its  hidden  deeps, 
And  grows  and  strengthens  with  each  riper  year. 


100  MAt  ilIXE. 

As  storms  mar  gather  in  a  placid  sky, 
And  spend  their  fury,  and  then  pass  away, 
Leaving  again  the  blue  of  cloudless  day, 
E'en  so  the  tempest  of  my  grief  passed  by. 
'T  was  weak  to  mourn  for  what  I  had  resigned, 
With  the  deliberate  purpose  of  my  mind, 
To  my  sweet  friend. 

Relinquishing  my  love, 
I  gave  my  dearest  hope  of  joy  to  her. 
If  God,  from  onthis  boundless  store  above, 
Had  chosen  added  blessings  to  confer, 
I  would  rejoice,  for  her  sake — not  repine 
That  th'  immortal  treasures  were  not  mine. 

Better  my  lonely  sorrow,  than  to  know 
My  selfish  joy  had  been  another's  woe; 
Better  my  grief  and  my  strength  to  control. 
Than  the  despair  of  her  frail-bodied  soul; 
Better  to  go  on,  loveless,  to  the  end, 
Than  wear  love's  rose,  whose  thorn  had  slain  my 
friend. 

Work  is  the  salve  that  heals  the  wounded  heart. 
With  will  most  resolute  I  set  my  aim 
To  enter  on  the  weary  race  for  Fame, 
And  if  I  failed  to  climb  the  dizzy  height, 
To  reach  some  point  of  excellence  in  art. 

E'en  as  the  Maker  held  earth  incomplete, 
Till  man  was  formed,  and  placed  upon  the  sod, 
The  perfect,  living  image  of  his  God, 


MAURINE.  101 

All  landscape  scenes  were  lacking  in  my  sight, 

Wherein  the  human  figure  had  no  part. 

In  that,  all  lines  of  symmetry  did  meet — 

All  hues  of  beauty  mingle.     So  I  brought 

Enthusiasm  in  abundance,  thought, 

Much  study,  and  some  talent,  day  by  day, 

To  help  me  in  my  efforts  to  portray 

The  woud'rous  power,  majesty  and  grace 

Stamped  on  some  form,  or  looking  from  some  face. 

This  was  to  be  my  specialty:     To  take 

Human  emotion  for  rny  theme,  and  make 

The  unassisted  form  divine  express 

Anger  or  Sorrow,  Pleasure,  Pain,  Distress; 

And  thus  to  build  Fame's  monument  above 

The  grave  of  my  departed  hope  and  love. 

This  is  not  Genius.     Genius  spreads  its  wings 
And  soars  beyond  itself,  or  selfish  things. 
Talent  has  need  of  stepping-stones:  some  cross, 
Some  cheated  purpose,  some  great  pain  or  loss, 
Must  lay  the  groundwork,  and  arouse  ambition, 
Before  it  labors  onward  to  fruition. 

But,  as  the  lark  from  beds  of  bloom  will  rise 

And  sail  and  sing  among  the  very  skies, 

Still  mounting  near  and  nearer  to  the  light, 

Impelled  alone  by  love  of  upward  flight, 

So  Genius  soars — it  does  not  need  to  climb — 

Upon  God-given  wings,  to  heights  sublime. 

Some  sportman's  shot,  grazing  the  singer's  throat, 


lo-i  MAUKIXE. 

Some  venomous  assault  of  birds  of  prey, 
May  speed  its  flight  toward  the  realm  of  day, 
And  tinge  with  triumph  every  liquid  note. 
So  deathless  Genius  mounts  but  higher  yet, 
When  Strife  and  Envy  think  to  slay  or  fret. 

There  is  no  balking  Genius.     Only  death 

Can  silence  it,  or  hinder.     While  there's  breath 

Or  sense  of  feeling,  it  will  spurn  the  sod, 

And  lift  itself  to  glory,  and  to  God. 

The  acorn  sprouted — weeds  nor  flowers  can  choke 

The  certain  growth  of  th'  u preaching  oak. 

Talent  was  mine,  not  Genius;  and  my  mind 
Seemed  bound  by  chains,  and  would  not  leave  behind 
Its  selfish  love  and  sorrow. 

Did  I  strive 

To  picture  some  emotion,  lo!  his  eyes, 
Of  emerald  beauty,  dark  as  ocean  dyes, 
Looked  from  the  canvas:  and  my  buried  pain 
Rose  from  its  grave,  and  stood  by  me  alive. 
Whate'er  my  subject,  in  some  hue  or  line, 
The  glorious  beauty  of  his  face  would  shine. 

So  for  a  time  my  labor  seemed  in  vain, 
Since  it  but  freshened,  and  made  keener  yet, 
The  grief  my  heart  was  striving  to  forget. 

While  in  his  form  all  strength  and  magnitude 
With  grace  and  supple  sinews  were  entwined. 
While  in  his  face  all  beauties  were  combined 


MA  URINE.  103 

Of  perfect  features,  intellect  and  truth, 

With  all  that  fine  rich  coloring  of  youth, 

How  could  ray  brush  portray  aught  good  or  fair 

Wherein  no  fatal  likeness  should  intrude 

Of  him  my  soul  had  worshiped? 

But,  at  last, 

Setting  a  watch  upon  my  unwise  heart 
That  thus  would  mix  its  sorrow  with  my  art, 
I  resolutely  shut  away  the  past, 
And  made  the  toilsome  present  passing  bright 
With  dreams  of  what  was  hidden  from  iny  sight. 
In  the  far  distant  future,  when  the  soil 
Should  yield  me  golden  fruit  for  all  my  toil. 


104  MAUKIXE. 


PART  VII. 

With  much  hard  labor  and  some  pleasure  fraught, 
The  months  rolled  by  me  noiselessly,  that,  taught 
My  hand  to  grow  more  skillful  in  its  art, 
Strengthened    my    daring    dream    of    fame,    and 

brought 
Sweet  hope  and  resignation  to  my  heart. 

Brief  letters  came  from  Helen,  now  and  then: 

She  was  quite  well — oh,  yes!  quite  well,  indeed! 

But  still  so  weak  and  nervous.     By  and  by, 

When  baby,  being  older,  should  not  need 

Such  constant  care,  she  would  grow  strong  again. 

She  was  as  happy  as  a  soul  could  be; 

No  least  cloud  hovered  in  her  azure  sky; 

She  had  not  thought  life  held  such  depths  of  bliss. 

Dear  baby  sent  Maurine  a  loving  kiss, 

And  said  she  was  a  naughty,  naughty  girl, 

Not  to  come  home  and  see  ma's  little  pearl. 

No  gift  of  costly  jewels,  or  of  gold, 

Had  been  so  precious  or  so  dear  to  me, 

As  each  brief  line  wherein  her  joy  was  told. 

It  lightened  toil,  and  took  the  edge  from  pain, 

Knowing  my  sacrifice  was  not  in  vain. 

Roy  purchased  fine  estates  in  Scotland,  where 

He  built  a  pretty  villa-like  retreat. 

And  when  the  Roman  Summers  languid  heat 


MAURI  XE.  105 

Made  work  a  punishment,  I  turned  my  face 
Toward  the  Highlands,  and  with  Hoy  and  Grace 
Found  rest  and  freedom  from  all  thought  and  care. 

I  was  a  willing  worker.     Not  an  hour 
Passed  idly  by  me:  each,  I  would  employ 
To  some  good  purpose,  ere  it  glided  on 
To  swell  the  tide  of  hours  forever  gone. 
My  first  completed  picture,  known  as  '"Joy," 
Won  pleasant  words  of  praise.    "Possesses  power," 
"Displays  much  talent,"  "  Very  fairly  done." 
So  fell  the  comments  on  my  grateful  ear. 

Swift  in  the  wake  of  Joy,  and  always  near, 
Walks  her  sad  sister  Sorrow.     So  my  brush 
Began  depicting  sorrow,  heavy-eyed, 
With  pallid  visage,  ere  the  rosy  flush 
Upon  the  beaming  face  of  Joy  had  dried. 
The  careful  study  of  long  months,  it  won 
Golden  opinions;  even  bringing  forth 
That  certain  sign  of  merit — a  critique 
Which  set  both  pieces  down  as  daubs,  and  weak 
As  empty  heads  that  sang  their  praises — so 
Proving  conclusively  the  pictures'  worth. 
These  critics  and  reviewers  do  not  use 
Their  precious  ammunition  to  abuse 
A  worthless  work.     That,  left  alone,,  they  know 
Will  find  its  proper  level;  arid  they  aim 
Their  batteries  at  rising  works  which  claim 
Too  much  of  public  notice.     But  this  shot 
Resulted  only  in  some  noise,  which  brought 


106  MAURINE. 

A  dozen  people,  where  one  came  before 
To  view  my  pictures;  and  I  had  my  hour 
Of  holding  those  frail  baubles,  Fame  and  Po\v'r. 
An  English  Baron  who  had  lived  two  score 
Of  his  allotted  three  score  years  and  ten, 
Bought  both  the  pieces.     He  was  very  kind, 
And  so  attentive,  I,  not  being  blind, 
Must  understand  his  meaning. 

Therefore,  when 
He  said, 

"  Sweet  friend,  whom  I  would  make  my  wife. 
The  'Joy  '  and  '  Sorrow  '  this  dear  hand  portrayed 
I  have  in  my  possession:  now  resign 
Into  my  careful  keeping,  and  make  mine, 
The  joy  and  sorrow  of  your  future  life," — 
I  was  prepared  to  answer,  but  delayed, 
Grown  undecided  suddenly. 

My  mind 

Argued  the  matter  coolly  pro  and  con, 
And  made  resolve  to  speed  his  wooing  on 
And  grant  him  favor.     He  was  good  and  kind; 
Not  young,  no  doubt  he  would  be  quite  content 
AVith  my  respect,  nor  miss  an  ardent  love; 
Could  give  me  ties  of  family  and  home; 
And  then,  perhaps,  my  mind  was  not  above 
Setting  some  value  on  a  titled  name — 
Ambitious  woman's  weakness! 

Then  my  art 

Would  be  encouraged  and  pursued  the  same, 
And  I  could  spend  my  winters  all  in  Rome. 


MAUKINE.  107 

Love  never  more  could  touch  my  wasteful  heart 
That  all  its  wealth  upon  one  object  spent. 
Existence  would  be  very  bleak  and  cold, 
After  long  years,  when  I  was  gray  and  old, 
With  neither  home  nor  children. 

Once  a  wife, 

I  would  forget  the  sorrow  of  my  life. 
And  pile  new  sods  upon  the  grave  of  pain. 
My  mind  so  argued;  and  my  sad  heart  heard, 
But  made  no  comment. 

Then  the  Baron  spoke, 
And  waited  for  my  answer.     All  in  vain 
I  strove  for  strength  to  utter  that  one  word 
My  mind  dictated.     Moments  rolled  away — 
Until  at  last  my  torpid  heart  awoke, 
And  forced  my  trembling  lips  to  say  him  nay. 
And  then  my  eyes  with  sudden  tears  o'errari, 
In  pity  for  myself  and  for  this  man 
AVho  stood  before  me,  lost  in  pained  surprise. 
••  Dear  friend,"  I  cried,   u  Dear  generous  friend,  for 
give 

A  troubled  woman's  weakness!     As  I  live, 
In  truth  I  meant  to  answer  otherwise. 
From  out  its  store,  my  heart  can  give  you  naught 
But  honor  and  respect;  and  yet  methought 
I  would  give  willing  answer,  did  you  sue. 
But  now  I  know  't  were  cruel  wrong  I  planned; 
Taking  a  heart  that  beat  with  love  most  true, 
And  giving  in  exchange  an  empty  hand. 
Who  weds  for  love  alone,  may  not  be  wise: 
Who  weds  without  it,  angels  must  despise. 


108  MAURINE. 

Love  and  respect  together  must  combine 

To  render  marriage  holy  and  divine; 

And  lack  of  either,  sure  as  Fate,  destroys 

Continuation  of  the  nuptial  joys, 

And  brings  regret,  and  gloomy  discontent, 

To  put  to  rout  each  tender  sentiment. 

Nay,  nay!  I  will  not  burden  all  your  life 

By  that  possession — an  unloving  wife; 

Nor  will  I  take  the  sin  upon  my  soul 

Of  wedding  where  my  heart  goes  not  in  whole. 

However  bleak  may  be  my  single  lot, 

I  will  not  stain  my  life  with  such  a  blot. 

Dear  friend,  farewell!  the  earth  is  very  wide; 

It  holds  some  fairer  woman  for  your  bride; 

I  would  I  had  a  heart  to  give  to  you, 

But,  lacking  it,  can  only  say — adieu!" 

He  whom  temptation  never  has  assailed, 
Knows  not  that  subtle  sense  of  moral  strength; 
"When  sorely  tried,  we  waver,  but  at  length. 
Rise  up  and  turn  away,  not  having  failed. 


The  Autumn  of  the  third  year  came  and  went; 
The  mild  Italian  winter  was  half  spent, 
When  this  brief  message  came  across  the  sea: 
''  My  darling!  I  am  dying.     Come  to  me. 
Love,  which  so  long  the  growing  truth  concealed. 
Stands  pale  within  its  shadow.     O,  my  sweet! 
This  heart  of  mine  grows  fainter  with  each  beat- 


MAUKINE.  109 

Dying  with  very  weight  of  bliss.     O,  come! 
And  take  the  legacy  I  leave  to  you, 
Before  these  lips  forevermore  are  dumb. 
In  life  or  death,     Yours,  Helen  Dangerfield." 

This  plaintive  letter  bore  a  month  old  date; 
And,  wild  with  fears  lest  I  had  come  too  late, 
I  bade  the  old  world  and  new  friends  adieu, 
And  with   Aunt  Ruth,   who  long  had   sighed  for 

home, 
I  turned  my  back  on  glory,  art,  and  Rome. 

All  selfish  thoughts  were  merged  in  one  wild  fear 
That  she  for  whose  dear  sake  my  heart  had  bled, 
Rather  than  her  sweet  eyes  should  know  one  tear, 
Was  passing  from  me;  that  she  might  be  dead; 
And,  dying,  had  been  sorely  grieved  with  me, 
Because  I  made  no  answer  to  her  plea. 

"O,  ship,  that  sailest  slowly,  slowly  on, 
Make  haste  before  a  wasting  life  is  gone! 
Make  haste  that  I  may  catch  a  fleeting  breath! 
And  true  in  life,  be  true  e'en  unto  death. 

"  O,  ship,  sail  on!  and  bear  me  o'er  the  tide 
To  her  for  whom  my  woman's  heart  once  died. 
Sail,  sail,  O,  ship!   for  she  hath  need  of  me, 
And  I  would  know  what  her  last  wish  may  be! 
I  have  been  true,  so  true,  through  all  the  past. 
Sail,  sail,  O,  ship!  I  would  not  fail  at  last." 


110  MA  URINE. 

So  prayed  my  heart  still  o'er,  and  ever  o'er, 
Until  the  weary  lagging  ship  reached  shore. 
All  sad  with  fears  that  I  had  come  too  late, 
By  that  strange  source  whence  men  communicate, 
Though  miles  on  miles  of  space  between  them  lie, 
I  spoke  with  Vivian:  "Does  she  live?     Reply." 
The  answer  came.     "  She  lives,  but  hasten,  friend ! 
Her  journey  draweth  swiftly  to  its  end." 

Ah  me!  ah  me!  when  each  remembered  spot, 
My  own  dear  home,  the  lane  that  led  to  his — 
The  fields,  the  woods,  the  lake,  burst  on  my  sight. 
Oh!  then,  Self  rose  up  in  asserting  might; 
Oh,  then,  my  bursting  heart  all  else  forgot, 
But  those  sweet  early  years  of  lost  delight, 
Of  hope,  defeat,  of  anguish  and  of  bliss. 

I  have  a  theory,  vague,  undefined, 

That  each  emotion  of  the  human  mind, 

Love,  pain  or  passion,  sorrow  or  despair, 

Is  a  live  spirit,  dwelling  in  the  air, 

Until  it  takes  possession  of  some  breast; 

And,  when  at  length,  grown  weary  of  unrest. 

We  rise  up  strong  and  cast  it  from  the  heart, 

And  bid  it  leave  us  wholly,  and  depart, 

It  does  not  die,  it  cannot  die;  but  goes 

And  mingles  with  some  restless  wind  that  blows? 

About  the  region  where  it  had  its  birth. 

And  though  we  wander  over  all  the  earth, 

That  spirit  waits,  and  lingers,  year  by  year, 

Invisible,  and  clothed  like  the  air, 


MAUEINE.  Ill 

Hoping  that  we  may  yet  again  draw  near, 
And  it  may  haply  take  us  unaware, 
And  once  more  find  safe  shelter  in  the  breast 
It  stirred  of  old  with  pleasure  or  unrest. 

Told  by  my  heart,  and  wholly  positive, 
Some  old  emotion  long  had  ceased  to  live; 
That,  were  it  called,  it  could  not  hear  or  come, 
Because  it  was  so  voiceless  and  so  dumb, 
Yet,  passing  where  it  first  sprang  into  life, 
My  very  soul  has  suddenly  been  rife  . 
With  all  the  old  intensity  of  feeling. 
It  seemed  a  living  spirit,  which  came  stealing 
Into  my  heart  from  that  departed  day; 
Exiled  emotion,  which  I  fancied  clay. 

So  now  into  my  troubled  heart,  above 
The  present's  pain  and  sorrow,  crept  the  love 
And  strife  and  passion  of  a  by-gone  hoar, 
Possessed  of  all  their  olden  might  and  power. 
'T  was  but  a  moment,  arid  the  spell  was  broken 
By  pleasant  words  of  greeting,  gently  spoken, 
And  Yivian  stood  before  us. 

But  I  saw 

In  him  the  husband  of  my  friend  alone. 
The  old  emotions  might  at  times  return, 
And  smold'ring  fires  leap  up  an  hour  and  burn ; 
But  never  yet  had  I  transgressed  God's  law, 
By  looking  on  the  man  I  had  resigned, 
With  any  hidden  feeling  in  my  mind, 
8 


112  MAURINE. 

"Which  she,  his   wife,  my  friend,   might  not  have 

known. 

He  was  but  little  altered.     From  his  face 
The  nonchalant  and  almost  haughty  grace, 
The  lurking  laughter  waiting  in  his  eyes, 
The  years  had  stolen,  leaving  in  their  place 
A  settled  sadness,  which  was  not  despair, 
Nor  was  it  gloom,  nor  weariness,  nor  care, 
But  something  like  the  vapor  o'er  the  skies 
Of  Indian  summer,  beautiful  to  see, 
But  spoke  of  frosts,  which  had  been  and  would  be. 
There  was  that  in  his  face  which  cometh  not, 
Save  when  the  soul  has  manv  a  battle  fought, 

*/  o         ' 

And  conquered  self  by  constant  sacrifice. 

There  are  two  sculptors,  who,  with  chisels  fine, 
Render  the  plainest  features  half  divine. 
All  other  artists  strive  and  strive  in  vain, 
To  picture  beauty  perfect  and  complete. 
Their  statues  only  crumble  at  their  feet, 
Without  the  master  touch  of  Faith  and  Pain. 
And  now  his  face,  that  perfect  seemed  before, 
Chiseled  by  these  two  careful  artists,  wore 
A  look  exalted,  which  the  spirit  gives 
When  soul  has  conquered,  and  the  body  lives 

Subservient  to  its  bidding. 

t 

In  a  room 

Which  curtained  out  the  February  gloom, 
And,  redolent  with  perfume,  bright  with  flowers, 
Rested  the  eve  like  one  of  Summer's  bowers, 


MAURINE.  113 

I  found  my  Helen,  who  was  less  mine  now 
Than  Death's;  for  on  the  marble  of  her  brow, 
His  seal  was  stamped  indelibly. 

Her  form 

Was  like  the  slender  willow,  when  some  storm 
Has  stripped  it  bare  of  foliage.     Her  face, 
Pale  always,  now  was  ghastly  in  its  hue: 
And,  like  two  lamps,  in  some  dark,  hollow  place, 
Burned  her  large  eyes,  grown  more  intensely  blue. 
Her  fragile  hands  displayed  each  cord  and  vein, 
And  on  her  mouth  was  that  drawn  look,  of  pain 
"Which  is  not  uttered.     Yet  an  inward  light 
Shone  through  and  made  her  wasted  features  bright 
With  an  unearthly  beauty;  and  an  awe 
Crept  o'er  me,  gazing  on  her,  for  I  saw 
She  was  so  near  to  Heaven  that  I  seemed 
To  look  upon  the  face  of  one  redeemed. 
She  turned  the  brilliant  luster  of  her  eyes 
Upon  me.     She  had  passed  beyond  surprise, 
Or  any  strong  emotion  linked  with  clay. 
But  as  I  glided  to  her  where  she  lay, 
A  smile,  celestial  in  its  sweetness,  wreathed 
Her  pallid  features.  '•  Welcome  home!"  she  breathed. 
"Dear  hands!  dear  lips!  I  touch  you  and  rejoice." 
And  like  the  dying  echo  of  a  voice 
Were  her  faint  tones  that  thrilled  upon  my  ear. 

I  fell  upon  my  knees  beside  her  bed; 
All  agonies  within  my  heart  were  wed, 
While  to  the  aching  numbness  of  my  grief, 
Mine  eyes  refused  the  solace  of  a  tear, — 
The  tortured  soul's  most  merciful  relief. 


114  MAURINE. 

Her  wasted  hand  caressed  my  bended  head 
For  one  sad,  sacred  moment.     Then  she  said, 
In  that  low  tone  so  like  the  wind's  refrain, 
"  Mauri ne,  my  own!  give  not  away  to  pain; 
The  time  is  precious.     Ere  another  dawn 
My  soul  may  hear  the  summons  and  pass  on. 
Arise,  sweet  sister!  rest  a  little  while, 
And  when  refreshed,  come  hither.     I  grow  weak 
"With  every  hour  that  passes.     I  must  speak 
And  make  my  dying  wishes  known  to-night. 
Go  now."     And  in  the  halo  of  her  smile, 
Which  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  golden  light, 
I  turned  and  left  her. 

Later  in  the  gloom, 

Of  coming  night,  I  entered  that  dim  room, 
And  sat  down  by  her.     Vivian  held  her  hand: 
And  on  the  pillow  at  her  side,  there  smiled 
The  beauteous  count'nance  of  a  sleeping  child. 

'•  Mauririe,"  spoke  Helen,  "  for  three  blissful  years, 
My  heart  has  dwelt  in  an  enchanted  land; 
And  I  have  drank  the  sweetened  cup  of  joy, 
Without  one  drop  of  anguish  or  alloy. 
And  so,  ere  Pain  embitters  it  with  gall, 
Or  sad-eyed  Sorrow  fills  it  full  of  tears, 
And  bids  me  quaff,  which  is  the  Fate  of  all 
Who  linger  long  upon  this  troubled  way, 
God  takes  me  to  the  realm  of  Endless  Day, 
To  mingle  with  his  angels,  who  alone 
Can  understand  such  bliss  as  I  have  known. 


MAURINE.  115 

I  do  not  murmur.     God  has  heaped  my  measure, 
In  three  short  years,  full  to  the  brim  with  pleasure; 
And,  from  the  fullness  of  an  earthly  love, 
I  pass  to  th'  Immortal  arms  above, 
Before  I  even  brush  the  skirts  of  Woe. 

I  leave  my  aged  parents  here  below. 
With  none  to  comfort  them.    Maurine,  sweet  friend! 
Be  kind  to  them,  and  love  them  to  the  end, 
Which  may  not  be  far  distant. 

And  I  leave 

A  soul  immortal  in  your  charge,  Maurine. 
From  this  most  holy,  sad  and  sacred  eve, 
Till  God  shall  claim  her,  she  is  yours  to  keep, 
To  love  and  shelter,  to  protect  and  guide." 
She  touched  the  sltirnb'ring  cherub  at  her  side, 
And  Vivian  gently  bore  her,  still  asleep, 
And  laid  the  precious  burden  on  my  breast. 

A  solemn  silence  fell  upon  the  scene. 

And  when  the  sleeping  infant  smiled,  and  pressed 

My  yielding  bosom  with  her  waxen  cheek, 

I  felt  it  would  be  sacrilege  to  speak, 

Such  wordless  joy  possessed  me. 

Oh!  at  last 

This  infant,  who,  in  that  tear-blotted  past, 
Had  caused  my  soul  such  travail,  was  my  own: 
Through  all  the  lonely  coming  years  to  be 
Mine  own  to  cherish — wholly  mine  alone. 
And  what  I  mourned  so  hopelessly  as  lost 
Was  now  restored,  and  given  back  to  me. 


116  MA  URINE. 

The  dying  voice  continued: 

"  In  this  child 

You  yet  have  me,  whose  mortal  life  she  cost. 
But  all  that  was  most  pure  and  undefiled, 
And  good  within  me,  lives  in  her  again. 
Maurine,  my  husband  loves  me;  yet  I  know, 
Moving  about  the  wide  world,  to  and  fro, 
And  through,  and  in  the  busy  haunts  of  men. 
Not  always  will  his  heart  bo  dumb  with  woe, 
But  sometime  waken  to  a  later  love. 
Nay,  Vivian,  hush!  my  soul  has  passed  above 
All  selfish  feelings!     I  would  have  it  so. 
While  I  am  with  the  angels,  blest  and  glad, 
I  would  not  have  you  sorrowing  and  sad, 
In  loneliness  go  mourning  to  the  end. 
But,  love!  I  could  not  trust  to  any  other 
The  sacred  office  of  a  foster-mother 
To  this  sweet  cherub,  save  my  own  heart-friend. 

"  Teach  her  to  love  her  father's  name,  Maurine, 
Where'er  he  wanders.     Keep  my  memory  green 
In  her  young  heart,  and  lead  her  in  her  youth, 
To  drink  from  th'  eternal  fount  of  Truth; 
Vex  her  not  with  sectarian  discourse, 
Nor  strive  to  teach  her  piety  by  force; 
Ply  not  her  rnind  with  harsh  and  narrow  creeds, 
Nor  frighten  her  with  an  avenging  God, 
Who  rules  his  subjects  with  a  "burning  rod; 
But  teach  her  that  each  mortal  simply  needs 
To  grow  in  hate  of  hate  and  love  of  love, 
To  gain  a  kingdom  in  the  courts  above. 


MAURINE.  11? 

"  Let  her  be  free  and  natural  as  the  flowers, 
That  smile  and  nod  throughout  the  summer  hours. 
Let  her  rejoice  in  all  the  joys  of  youth, 
But  first  impress  upon  her  mind  this  truth: 
No  lasting  happiness  is  e'er  attained 
Save  when  the  heart  some  other  seeks  to  please. 
The  cup  of  selfish  pleasures  soon  is  drained, 
And  full  of  gall  and  bitterness  the  lees. 
Next  to  her  God,  teach  her  to  love  her  laud; 
In  her  young  bosom  light  the  patriot's  flame 
Until  the  heart  within  her  shall  expand 
"With  love  and  fervor  at  her  country's  name. 

"No  coward-mother  bears  a  valiant  son. 
And  this,  my  last  wish,  is  an  earnest  one. 

"  Maurine,  my  o'er- taxed  strength  is  waning;  you 
Have  heard  my  wishes,  and  you  will  be  true 
In  death  as  you  have  been  in  life,  my  own! 
Now  leave  me  for  a  little  while  alone 
With  him — my  husband.     Dear  love!  I  shall  rest 
So  sweetly  with  no  care  upon  my  breast. 
Good  night,  Maurine,  come  to  me  in  the  morning." 

But  lo!  the  bridegroom  with  no  further  warning 
Came  for  her  at  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
She  heard  his  voice,  and  smiled,  and  passed  away 
Without  a  struggle. 

Leaning  o'er  her  bed 

To  give  her  greeting,  I  found  but  her  clay, 
And  Vivian  bowed  beside  it. 


118  MAURINE. 

And  I  said, 

"Dear  friend!  my  soul  shall  treasure  thy  request, 
And  when  the  night  of  fever  and  unrest 
Melts  in  the  morning  of  Eternity, 
Like  a  freed  bird,  then  I  will  come  to  thee. 

"  I  will  come  to  thee  in  the  morning,  sweet! 
I  have  been  true;  and  soul  with  soul  shall  meet 
Before  God's  throne,  and  shall  not  be  afraid. 
Thou  gav'st  me  trust,  and  it  was  not  betrayed. 

"  I  will  come  to  thee  in  the  morning,  dear! 
The  night  is  dark.     I  do  not  know  how  near 
The  morn  may  be  of  that  Eternal  Day; 
I  can  but  keep  my  faithful  watch  and  pray. 

"  I  will  come  to  thee  in  the  morning,  love! 
Wait  for  me  on  the  Eternal  Heights  above. 
The  way  is  troubled  where  my  feet  must  climb, 
Ere  I  shall  tread  the  mountain-top  sublime. 

"  I  will  come  in  the  morning,  O,  mine  own ! 
But  for  a  time  must  grope  my  way  alone. 
Through  tears  and  sorrow,  till  the  Day  shall  dawn, 
And  I  shall  hear  the  summons,  and  pass  on. 

"  I  will  come  in  the  morning.     Rest  secure! 
My  hope  is  certain  and  my  faith  is  sure. 
After  the  gloom  and  darkness  of  the  night 
I  will  come  to  thee  with  the  morning  light.'' 


MAUKINE.  119 

Three  peaceful  years  slipped  silently  away. 

"We  dwelt  together  in  my  childhood's  home, 

Aunt  Ruth  and  I,  and  sunny-hearted  May. 

She  was  a  fair  and  most  exquisite  child; 

Her  pensive  face  was  delicate  and  mild 

Like  her  dead  mother's;  but  through  her  dear  eyes 

Her  father  smiled  upon  me,  day  by  day. 

Afar  in  foreign  countries  did  he  roam, 

Now  resting  under  Italy's  blue  skies, 

And  now  with  Roy  in  Scotland. 

And  he  sent 

Brief,  friendly  letters,  telling  where  he  went 
And  what  he  saw,  addressed  to  May  or  me. 
And  I  would  write  and  tell  him  how  she  grew — 
And  how  she  talked  about  him  o'er  the  sea 
In  her  sweet  baby  fashion;  how  she  knew 
His  picture  in  the  album;  how  each  day 
She  knelt  and  prayed  the  blessed  Lord  would  bring 
Her  own  papa  back  to  his  little  May. 

It  was  a  warm  bright  morning  in  the  Spring. 

I  sat  in  that  same  sunny  portico, 

"Where  I  was  sitting  seven  years  ago 

When  Vivian  came.     My  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 

As  I  looked  back  across  the  checkered  years. 

How  many  were  the  changes  they  had  brought! 

Pain,  death,  and  sorrow!  but  the  lesson  taught 

To  my  young  heart  had  been  of  untold  worth. 

I  had  learned  how  to  "  suffer  and  grow  strong  " — 

That  knowledge  which  best  serves  us  here  on  earth, 

And  brings  reward  in  Heaven. 


120  MA  URINE. 

Oh!  how  long 

The  years  had  been  since  that  June  morning  when 
I  heard  his  step  upon  the  walk,  and  jet 
I  seemed  to  hear  its  echo  still. 

Just  then 

Down  that  same  path  I  turned  my  eyes,  tear- wet, 
And  lo!  the  wanderer  from  a  foreign  land 
Stood  there  before  me! — holding  out  his  hand 
And  smiling  with  those  wond'rous  eyes  of  old. 

To  hide  my  tears,  I  ran  and  brought  his  child; 
But  she  was  shy,  and  clung  to  me,  when  told 
This  was  papa,  for  whom  her  prayers  were  said. 
She  dropped  her  eyes  and  shook  her  little  head, 
And  would  not  by  his  coaxing  be  beguiled, 
Or  go  to  him. 

Aunt  Ruth  was  not  at  home, 
And  we  two  sat  and  talked,  as  strangers  might, 
Of  distant  countries  which  we  both  had  seen. 
But  once  I  thought  I  saw  his  large  eyes  light 
With  sudden  passion,  when  there  came  a  pause 
In  our  chit-chat,  and  then  he  spoke: 

"  Maurine, 

I  saw  a  number  of  your  friends  in  Rome. 
We  talked  of  you.     They  seemed  surprised,  because 
You  were  not  'mong  the  seekers  for  a  name. 
They  thought  your  whole  ambition  was  for  fame.'' 

"  It  might  have  been,"  I  answered,  "  when  my  heart 
Had  nothing  else  to  fill  it.     Now  my  art 


MAURINE.  121 

Is  but  a  recreation.     I  have  this 
To  love  and  live  for,  which  1  had  not  then." 
And,  leaning  down,  I  pressed  a  tender  kiss 
Upon  my  child's  fair  brow. 

"  And  yet,"  he  said, 
The  old  light  leaping  to  his  eyes  again, 
''And  yet,  Maurine,  the}-  say  you  might  have  wed 
A  noble  Baron !  one  of  many  men 
Who  laid  their  hearts  and  fortunes  at  your  feet. 
Why  won  the  bravest  of  them  no  return?" 

I  bowed  my  head,  nor  dared  his  gaze  to  meet- 
On  cheek  and  brow  I  felt  the  red  blood  burn, 
And  strong  emotion  strangled  speech. 

He  rose 
And  came  and  knelt  beside  me. 

"  Sweet,  my  sweet!" 

He  murmured  softly,  "  God  in  Heaven  knows 
How  well  I  loved  you  seven  years  ago. 
He  only  knows  my  anguish,  and  my  grief, 
When  your  own  acts  forced  on  me  the  belief 
That  I  had  been  your  plaything  and  your  toy. 
Yet  from  his  lips  I  since  have  learned  that  Roy 
Held  no  place  nearer  than  a  friend  arid  brother. 
And  then  a  faint  suspicion,  undefined, 
Of    what   had   been — was — might  be,    stirred   my 

mind, 

And  that  great  love,  I  thought  died  at  a  blow, 
Rose  up  within  me,  strong  with  hope  and  life. 


122  MAURINE. 

"  Before  all  heaven  and  the  angel  mother 
Of  this  sweet  child  that  slumbers  on  your  heart, 
Maurine,  Maurine,  I  claim  you  for  my  wife — 
Mine  own,  forever,  until  death  shall  part!" 

Through  happy  mists  of  upward  welling  tears, 
I  leaned,  and  looked  into  his  beauteous  eyes. 
"  Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  if  she  who  dwells  above 
Looks  down  upon  us,  from  yon  azure  skies, 
She  can  but  bless  us,  knowing  all  these  years 
My  soul  had  yearned  in  silence  for  the  love 
That  crowned  her  life,  and  left  mine  own  so  bleak. 
I  turned  you  from  me  for  her  fair,  frail  sake. 
For  her  sweet  child's,  and  for  my  own,  I  take 
You  back  to  be  all  mine,  for  evermore." 

Just  then  the  child  upon  my  breast  awoke 
From  her  light  sleep,  and  laid  her  downy  cheek 
Against  her  father  as  he  knelt  by  me. 
And  this  unconscious  action  seemed  to  be 
A  silent  blessing,  which  the  mother  spoke 
Gazing  upon  us  from  the  mystic  shore. 


TWO   SUNSETS.  123 


TWO  SUNSETS. 

In  the  fair  morning  of  his  life, 

When  his  pure  heart  lay  in  his  breast. 
Panting,  with  all  that  wild  unrest 

To  plunge  into  the  great  world's  strife 

That  fills  young  hearts  with  rnad  desire, 
He  saw  a  sunset.     Ked  and  gold 
The  burning  billows  surged  and  rolled, 

And  upward  tossed  their  caps  of  fire. 

He  looked.     And  as  he  looked,  the  sight 
Sent  from  his  soul  through  breast  and  brain 
Such  intense  joy,  it  hurt  like  pain. 

His  heart  seemed  bursting  with  delight. 

So  near  the  Unknown  seemed,  so  close 
He  might  have  grasped  it  with  his  hand. 
He  felt  his  inmost  soul  expand, 

As  sunlight  will  expand  a  rose. 

One  day  he  heard  a  singing  strain — 
A  human  voice,  in  bird-like  trills. 
He  paused,  and  little  rapture-rills 

Went  trickling  downward  through  each  vein. 


124  TWO    SUXSETS. 

And  in  his  heart  the  whole  day  long, 
As  in  a  temple  veiled  and  dim, 
He  kept  and  bore  about  with  him 

The  beauty  of  that  singer's  song. 

And  then?     But  why  relate  what  then? 

His  smoldering  heart  flamed  into  fire — 

He  had  his  one  supreme  desire, 
And  plunged  into  the  world  of  men. 

For  years  queen  Folly  held  her  sway. 
"With  pleasures  of  the  grosser  kind 
She  fed  his  flesh  and  drugged  his  mind, 

Till,  shamed,  he  sated  turned  away. 

He  sought  bis  boyhood's  home.     That  hour 
Triumphant  should  have  been,  in  sooth, 
Since  he  went  forth  an  unknown  youth. 

And  came  back  crowned  with  wealth  and  power 

The  clouds  made  day  a  gorgeous  bed; 
He  saw  the  splendor  of  the  sky 
With  unmoved  heart  and  stolid  eye; 

He  only  knew  the  West  was  red. 

Then  suddenly  a  fresh  young  voice 

Rose,  bird-like,  from  some  hidden  place, 
He  did  not  even  turn  his  face; 

It  struck  him  simply  as  a  noise. 


UNREST.  125 

He  trod  the  old  paths  up  and  down. 
Their  rich-hued  leaves  by  Fall  winds  whirled— 
How  dull  they  were — how  dull  the  world — 

Dull  even  in  the  pulsing  town. 

0!  worst  of  punishments,  that  brings 

A  blunting  of  all  finer  sense, 

A  loss  of  feelings  keen,  intense, 
And  dulls  us  to  the  higher  things. 

O!  penalty  most  dire,  most  sure, 
Swift  following  after  gross  delights, 
That  we  no  more  see  beauteous  sights, 

Or  hear  as  hear  the  good  and  pure. 

O!  shape  more  hideous  and  more  dread 

Than  Vengeance  takes  in  creed-taught  minds, 
This  certain  doom  that  blunts  and  blinds, 

And  strikes  the  holiest  feelings  dead. 


UNREST. 

In  the  youth  of  the  year,  when  the  birds  were  build 
ing, 

When  the  green  was  showing  on  tree  and  hedge, 
And  the  tenderest  light  of  all  lights  was  gilding 

The  world  from  zenith  to  outermost  edge, 


126  UNREST. 

My  soul  grew  sad  and  longingly  lonely! 

I  sighed  for  the  season  of  sun  and  rose. 
And  I  said,  i;  In  the  Summer  and  that  time  only 

Lies  sweet  contentment  and  blest  repose." 

"With  bee  and  bird  for  her  maids  of  honor 

Came  Princess  Summer  in  robes  of  green. 
And  the  King  of  day  smiled  down  upon  her 

And  wooed  her,  and  won  her,  and  made  her 
Fruit  of  their  union  and  true  love's  pledges. 

Beautiful  roses  bloomed  day  by  day, 
And  rambled  in  gardens  and  hid  in  hedges 

Like  royal  children  in  sportive  play. 

My  restless  soul  for  a  little  season 

Reveled  in  rapture  of  glow  and  bloom, 
And  then,  like  a  subject  who  harbors  treason, 

Grew  full  of  rebellion  and  gray  with  gloom. 
And  I  said,  "  I  am  sick  of  the  Summer's  blisses, 

Of  warmth  and  beauty,  and  nothing  more. 
The  full  fruition  my  sad  soul  misses 

That  beauteous  Fall  time  holds  in  store!" 

But  now  when  the  colors  are  almost  blinding, 

Burning  and  blending  on  bush  and  tree, 
And  the  rarest  fruits  are  mine  for  the  finding, 

And  the  year  is  ripe  as  a  year  can  be, 
My  soul  complains  in  the  same  old  fashion; 

Crying  aloud  in  my  troubled  breast 
Is  the  same  old  longing,  the  same  old  passion. 

O  where  is  the  treasure  which  men  call  rest? 


"ARTIST'S  LIFE." 


"ARTIST'S   LIFE." 

Of  all  the  waltzes  the  great  Strauss  wrote, 

Mad  with  melody,  rhythm — rife 
From  the  very  first  to  the  final  note, 

Give  me  his  "Artist's  Life!" 

It  stirs  my  blood  to  my  finger  ends, 

Thrills  me  and  fills  me  with  vague  unrest, 

And  all  that  is  sweetest  and  saddest  blends 
Together  within  my  breast. 

It  brings  back  that  night  in  the  dim  arcade, 
In  love's  sweet  morning  and  life's  best  prime, 

When  the  great  brass  orchestra  played  and  played. 
And  set  our  thoughts  to  rhyme. 

It  brings  back  that  Winter  of  mad  delights, 
Of  leaping  pulses  and  tripping  feet, 

And  those  languid  moon-washed  Summer  nights 
When  we  heard  the  band  in  the  street. 

It  brings  back  rapture  and  glee  and  glow, 
It  brings  back  passion  and  pain  and  strife, 

And  so  of  all  the  waltzes  I  know, 
Give  me  the  "  Artist's  Life." 

For  it  is  so  full  of  the  dear  old  time — 
So  full  of  the  dear  old  friends  I  knew. 

And  under  its  rhythm,  and  lilt,  and  rhyme, 
I  am  always  finding — you. 

9 


128  NOTHING  BUT   STONES. 


NOTHING  BUT  STONES. 

I  think  I  never  passed  so  sad  an  hour, 

Dear  friend,  as  that  one  at  the  church  to-night. 
The  edifice  from  basement  to  the  tower 

Was  one  resplendent  blaze  of  colored  light. 
Up   through   broad   aisles   the   stylish   crowd  was 
thronging, 

Each  richly  robed  like  some  king's  bidden  guest. 
Here  will  I  bring  my  sorrow  and  my  longing," 

I  said,  "  and  here  find  rest." 

I  heard  the  heavenly  organ's  voice  of  thunder, 

It  seemed  to  give  me  infinite  relief. 
I  wept.     Strange  eyes  looked  on  in  well-bred  wonder, 

I  dried  my  tears:  their  gaze  profaned  my  grief. 
Wrapt  in  the  costly  furs,  and  silks  and  laces 

Beat  alien  hearts,  that  had  no  part  with  me. 
I  could  not  read,  in  all  those  proud  cold  faces, 

One  thought  of  sympathy. 

I  watched  them  bowing  and  devoutly  kneeling, 

Heard  their  responses  like  sweet  waters  roll. 
But  only  the  glorious  organ's  sacred  pealing 

Seemed  gushing  from  a  full  and  fervent  soul. 
I  listened  to  the  man  of  holy  calling, 

He  spoke  of  creeds,  and  hailed  his  own  as  best; 
Of  man's  corruption  and  of  Adam's  falling, 

But  naught  that  gave  me  rest. 


THE    COQUETTE.  129 

Nothing  that  helped  me  bear  the  daily  grinding 

Of  soul  with  body,  heart  with  heated  brain. 
Nothing  to  show  the  purpose  of  this  blinding 

And  sometimes  overwhelming  sense  of  pain. 
And  then,  dear  friend,  I  thought  of  thee,  so  lowly, 

So  unassuming,  arid  so  gently  kind, 
And  lo!  a  peace,  a  calm  serene  and  holy, 

Settled  upon  my  mind. 

Ah,  friend,   my  friend!    one  true  heart,  fond  and 
tender, 

That  understands  our  troubles  and  our  needs, 
Brings  us  more  near  to  God  than  all  the  splendor 

And  pomp  of  seeming  worship  and  vain  creeds. 
One  glance  of  thy  dear  eyes  so  full  of  feeling, 

Doth  bring  me  closer  to  the  Infinite, 
Than  all  that  throng  of  worldly  people  kneeling 

In  blaze  of  gorgeous  light. 


THE  COQUETTE. 

Alone  she  sat  with  her  accusing  heart, 

That,  like  a  restless  comrade  frightened  sleep. 

And  every  thought  that  found  her,  left  a  dart 
That  hurt  her  so,  she  could  not  even  weep. 

Her  heart  that  once  had  been  a  cup  well  filled 
With  love's  red  wine,  save  for  some  drops  of  gall 

She  knew  was  empty;   though  it  had  not  spilled 
Its  sweets  for  one,  but  wasted  them  on  all. 


130 


She  stood  upon  the  grave  of  her  dead  truth, 
And  saw  her  soul's  bright  armor  red  with  rust, 

And  knew  that  all  the  riches  of  her  youth 
Were  Dead  Sea  apples,  crumbling  into  dust. 

Love  that  had  turned  to  bitter,  biting  scorn, 

Hearthstones  despoiled,  and  homes  made  desolate, 

Made  her  cry  out  that  she  was  ever  born, 
To  loathe  her  beauty  and  to  curse  her  fate. 


INEVITABLE. 

To-day  I  was  so  weary  and  I  lay 

In  that  delicious  state  of  semi-waking, 

When  baby,  sitting  with  his  nurse  at  play, 

Cried  loud  for  "•  mamma,"  all  his  toys  forsaking. 

I  was  so  weary  and  I  needed  rest, 

And  signed  to  nurse  to  bear  him  from  the  room. 
Then,  sudden,  rose  and  caught  him  to  my  breast, 

And  kissed  the  grieving  mouth  and  cheeks  of  bloom. 

For  swift  as  lightning  came  the  thought  to  me, 
With  pulsing  heart-throes  and  a  mist  of  tears, 

Of  days  inevitable,  that  are  to  be, 

If  my  fair  darling  grows  to  manhood's  years; 

Days  when  he  will  not  call  for  "  mamma,"  when 
The  world  with  many  a  pleasure  and  bright  joy, 

Shall  tempt  him  forth  into  the  haunts  of  men 
And  I  shall  lose  the  first  place  with  my  boy; 


THE  OCEAN  OF   SONG.  131 

When  other  homes  and  loves  shall  give  delight, 
When  younger  smiles  and  voices  will  seem  best. 

And  so  1  held  him  to  my  heart  to-night. 
Forgetting  all  my  need  of  peace  and  rest. 


THE   OCEAN   OF   SONG. 

In  a  land  beyond  sight  or  conceiving, 

In  a  land  where  no  blight  is,  no  wrong, 
No  darkness,  no  graves,  and  no  grieving, 

There  lies  the  great  ocean  of  song. 
And  its  waves,  oh,  its  waves  unbeholden 

By  any  save  gods,  and  their  kind, 
Are  not  blue,  are  not  green,  but  are  golden, 

Like  moonlight  and  sunlight  combined. 

It  was  whispered  to  me  that  their  waters 

Were  made  from  the  gathered-up  tears, 
That  were  wept  by  the  sons  and  the  daughters 

Of  long-vanished  eras  and  spheres. 
Like  white  sands  of  heaven  the  spray  is 

That  falls  all  the  happy  day  long, 
And  whoever  it  touches  straightway  is 

Made  glad  with  the  spirit  of  song. 

Up,  up  to  the  clouds  where  their  hoary 
Crowned  heads  melt  away  in  the  skies, 

The  beautiful  mountains  of  glory 
Each  side  of  the  song  ocean  rise. 


132  THE   OCEAN  OF   SONG. 

Here  day  is  one  splendor  of  sky  light 
Of  God's  light  with  beauty  replete. 

Here  night  is  not  night,  but  is  twilight, 
Pervading,  enfolding  and  sweet. 

Bright  birds  from  all  climes  and  all  regions 

That  sing  the  whole  glad  summer  long, 
Are  dumb,  till  they  flock  here  in  legions 

And  lave  in  the  ocean  of  song. 
It  is  here  that  the  four  winds  of  heaven, 

The  winds  that  do  sing  and  rejoice, 
It  is  here  they  first  came  and  were  given 

The  secret  of  sound  and  a  voice. 

Far  down  along  beautiful  beeches, 

By  night  and  by  glorious  day, 
The  throng  of  the  gifted  ones  reaches, 

Their  foreheads  made  white  with  the  spray. 
And  a  few  of  the  sons  and  the  daughters 

Of  this  kingdom,  cloud-hidden  from  sight, 
Go  down  in  the  wonderful  waters, 

And  bathe  in  those  billows  of  light. 

And  their  souls  ever  more  are  like  fountains, 

And  liquid  and  lucent  and  strong, 
High  over  the  tops  of  the  mountains 

Gush  up  the  sweet  billows  of  song. 
No  drouth-time  of  waters  can  dry  them. 

Whoever  has  bathed  in  that  sea, 
All  dangers,  all  deaths,  they  defy  them, 

And  are  gladder  than  gods  are,  with  glee. 


"IT  MIGHT   HAVE    BEE.NV' 


"  IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN.'1 

We  will  be  what  we  could  be.     Do  not  say, 

"  It  might  have  been,  had  not  or  that,  or  this." 
No  fate  can  keep  us  from  the  chosen  way; 
lie  only  might,  who  is. 

We  will  do  what  we  could  do.     Do  not  dream 

Chance  leaves  a  hero,  all  uncrowned  to  grieve. 
I  hold,  all  men  are  greatly  what  they  seem ; 
He  does,  who  could  achieve. 

We  will  climb  where  we  could  climb.     Tell  me  not 
Of  adverse  storms  that  kept  thee  from  the  height 
What  eagle  ever  missed  the  peak  he  sought? 
He  always  climbs  who  might. 

I  do  not  like  the  phrase,  "  It  might  have  been!" 

It  lacks  all  force,  and  life's  best  truths  perverts: 
For  I  believe  we  have,  and  reach,  and  win, 
Whatever  our  deserts. 


IF. 

Dear  love,  if  you  and  I  could  sail  away, 

AVith  snowy  pennons  to  the  winds  unfurled, 

Across  the  waters  of  some  unknown  bay, 
And  find  some  island  far  from  all  the  world ; 


1.34  GETHSEMANE. 

If  we  could  dwell  there,  ever  more  alone, 

While  unrecorded  years  slip  by  apace, 
Forgetting  and  forgotten  and  unknown 

By  aught  save  native  song-birds  of  the  place; 

If  Winter  never  visited  that  land, 

And  Summer's  lap  spilled  o'er  with  fruits  andflowers, 
And  tropic  trees  cast  shade  on  every  hand, 

And  twined  boughs  formed  sleep-inviting  bowers; 

If  from  the  fashions  of  the  world  set  free, 
And  hid  away  from  all  its  jealous  strife, 

I  lived  alone  for  you,  and  you  for  me — 

Ah!  then,  dear  love,  how  sweet  were  wedded  life. 

But  since* we  dwell  here  in  the  crowded  way, 

Where  hurrying  throngs  rush  by  to  seek  for  gold, 

And  all  is  common-place  and  work-a-day, 

As  soon  as  love's  young  honeymoon  grows  old; 

Since  fashion  rules  and  nature  yields  to  art, 

And  life  is  hurt  by  daily  jar  and  fret, 
'Tis  best  to  shut  such  dreams  down  in  the  heart 

And  go  our  ways  alone,  love,  and  forget. 


GETHSEMANE. 

In  golden  youth  when  seems  the  earth 
A  Summer-land  of  singing  mirth, 
When  souls  are  glad  and  hearts  are  light, 
And  not  a  shadow  lurks  in  sight, 


GETHSEMANE. 

We  do  not  know  it,  but  there  lies 
Somewhere  veiled  under  evening  skies 
A  garden  which  we  all  must  see — 
The  garden  of  Gethsemane. 

With  joyous  steps  we  go  our  ways, 
Love  lends  a  halo  to  our  days; 
Light  sorrows  sail  like  clouds  afar, 
We  laugh,  and  say  how  strong  we  are. 
We  hurry  on;  and  hurrying,  go 
Close  to  the  border-land  of  woe, 
That  waits  for  you,  and  waits  for  me — 
Forever  waits  Gethsemane. 

Down  shadowy  lanes,  across  strange  streams, 
Bridged  over  by  our  broken  dreams; 
Behind  the  misty  caps  of  years, 
Beyond  the  great  salt  fount  of  tears, 
The  garden  lies.     Strive  as  you  may, 
You  cannot  miss  it  in  your  way. 
All  paths  that  have  been,  or  shall  be, 
Pass  somewhere  through  Gethsemane. 

All  those  who  journey,  soon  or  late, 
Must  pass  within  the  garden's  gate; 
Must  kneel  alone  in  darkness  there, 
And  battle  with  some  fierce  despair. 
God  pity  those  who  can  not  say, 
"  Not  mine  but  thine,"  who  only  pray, 
"  Let  this  cup  pass,"  and  cannot  see 
The  purpose  in  Gethsemane. 


136  DUST-SEALED. 


DUST-SEALED. 

I  know  not  wherefore,  but  mine  eyes 
See  bloom,  where  other  eyes  see  blight. 

They  find  a  rainbow,  a  sunrise, 

"Where  others  but  discern  deep  night. 

Men  call  me  an  enthusiast, 

And  say  I  look  through  gilded  haze: 
Because  where'er  my  gaze  is  cast, 

I  see  some  thing  that  calls  for  praise. 

I  say,  "  Behold  those  lovely  eyes — 

That  tinted  cheek  of  flower-like  grace." 
They  answer  in  amused  surprise: 
"  We  thought  it  such  a  common  face." 

I  say,  "  "Was  ever  scene  more  fair? 

I  seem  to  walk  in  Eden's  bowers." 
They  answer  with  a  pitying  air, 
"  The  weeds  are  choking  out  the  flowers." 

I  know  not  wherefore,  but  God  lent 

A  deeper  vision  to  my  sight. 
On  whatsoe'er  my  gaze  is  bent 

I  catch  the  beauty  Infinite; 

That  underlying,  hidden  half 
That  all  tilings  hold  of  Deity. 

So  let  the  dull  crowd  sneer  and  laugh — 
Their  eyes  are  blind,  they  cannot  see. 


"ADVICE."  137 


"ADVICE." 

I  must  do  as  you  do  ?     Your  way  I  own 

Is  a  very  good  way.     And  still, 
There  are  sometimes  two  straight  roads  to  a  town, 

One  over,  one  under  the  hill. 

You  are  treading  the  safe  and  the  well-worn  way, 
That  the  prudent  choose  each  time; 

And  you  think  me  reckless  and  rash  to-day, 
Because  I  prefer  to  climb. 

Your  path  is  the  right  one,  and  so  is  mine. 

We  are  not  like  peas  in  a  pod, 
Compelled  to  lie  in  a  certain  line, 

Or  else  be  scattered  abroad. 

'T  were  a  dull  old  world,  methinks,  my  friend, 

If  we  all  went  just  one  way; 
Yet  our  paths  will  meet  no  doubt  at  the  end, 

Though  they  lead  apart  to-day. 

You  like  the  shade,  and  I  like  the  sun ; 

You  like  an  even  pace, 
I  like  to  mix  with  the  crowd  and  run, 

And  then  rest  after  the  race. 

I  like  danger,  and  storm  and  strife, 

You  like  a  peaceful  time; 
I  like  the  passion  and  surge  of  life, 

You  like  its  gentle  rhyme. 


138  OVER  THE  BANISTERS. 

You  like  buttercups,  dewy  sweet. 
And  crocuses,  framed  in  snow; 

I  like  roses,  born  of  the  heat, 
And  the  red  carnation's  glow. 

I  must  live  my  life,  not  yours,  my  friend, 

For  so  it  was  written  down; 
We  must  follow  our  given  paths  to  the  end, 

But  I  trust  we  shall  meet — in  town. 


OVER   THE   BANISTERS. 

Over  the  banisters  bends  a  face, 
Daringly  sweet  and  beguiling. 

Somebody  stands  in  careless  grace, 
And  watches  the  picture,  smiling. 

The  light  burns  tlim  in  the  hall  below, 

Nobody  sees  her  standing, 
Saying  good-night  again,  soft  and  slow, 

Half  way  up  to  the  landing. 

Nobody  only  the  eyes  of  brown, 
Tender  and  full  of  meaning, 

That  smile  on  the  fairest  face  in  town, 
Over  the  banisters  leaning:. 


•&• 


Tired  and  sleepy,  with  drooping  head, 

I  wonder  why  she  lingers; 
Now,  when  the  good-nights  all  are  said, 

Why  somebody  holds  her  fingers. 


,  GOD  OF  LAUGHTER.  139 


He  holds  her  fingers  and  draws  her  down, 

Suddenly  growing  bolder, 
Till  the  loose  hair  drops  its  masses  brown 

Like  a  mantle  over  his  shoulder. 

Over  the  banisters  soft  hands,  fair, 

Brush  his  cheeks  like  a  feather, 
And  bright  brown  tresses  and  dusky  hair, 

Meet  and  mingle  together. 

There's  a  question  asked,  there's  a  swift  caress, 
She  has  flown  like  a  bird  from  the  hallway, 

But  over  the  banisters  drops  a  "yes," 

That  shall  brighten  the  world  for  him  alway. 


MOMUS,  GOD  OF  LAUGHTER. 

Though  with  gods  the  world  is  cumbered, 

Gods  unnamed,  and  gods  unnumbered, 

Never  god  was  known  to  be 

Who  had  not  his  devotee. 

So  I  dedicate  to  mine, 

Here  in  verse,  my  temple-shrine. 

'T  is  not  Ares, — mighty  Mars, 
Who  can  give  success  in  wars. 
'T  is  not  Morpheus,  who  doth  keep 
Guard  above  us  while  we  sleep, 


MOMUS,  GOD  OF   LAUGHTER. 

'Tis  not  Yenus,  she  whose  duty 
'Tis  to  give  us  love  and  beauty; 
Hail  to  these,  and  others,  after 
Momus,  gleesome  god  of  laughter. 

Quirinus  would  guard  my  health! 
Plutus  would  insure  me  wealth 
Mercury  looks  after  trade, 
Hera  smiles  on  youth  and  maid. 
All  are  kind,  I  own  their  worth, 
After  Mom  us,  god  of  mirth. 

Though  Apollo,  out  of  spite, 
Hides  away  his  face  of  light, 
Though  Minerva  looks  askance, 
Deigning  me  no  smiling  glance, 
Kings  and  queens  may  envy  rne  ^fe 

While  I  claim  the  god  of  glee. 

Wisdom  wearies,  Love  has  wings — 
Wealth  makes  burdens,  Pleasure  stings, 
Glory  proves  a  thorny  crown — 
So  all  gifts  the  gods  throw  down 
Bring  their  pains  and  troubles  after; 
All  save  Momus,  god  of  laughter. 
He  alone  gives  constant  joy, 
Hail  to  Momus,  happy  boy. 


I  DREAM.  141 


I   DREAM. 

Oh,  I  have  dreams.     I  sometimes  dream  of  Life 
In  the  full  meaning  of  that  splendid  word. 
Its  subtle  music  which  few  men  have  heard, 

Though  all  may  hear  it,  sounding  through  earth's 
strife. 

Its  mountain  heights  by  mystic  breezes  kissed. 
Lifting  their  lovely  peaks  above  the  dust; 
Its  treasures  which  no  touch  of  time  can  rust-. 

Its  emerald  seas,  its  dawns  of  amethyst, 
Its  certain  purpose,  its  serene  repose, 
Its  usefulness,  that  finds  no  hour  for  woes. 
This  is  my  dream  of  Life. 

Yes,  I  have  dreams.     I  ofttimes  dream  of  Love 
As  radiant  and  brilliant  as  a  star. 
As  changeless,  too,  as  that  fixed  light  afar 

Which  glorifies  vast  worlds  of  space  above. 

Strong  as  the  tempest  when  it  holds  its  b  re  alt), 
Before  it  bursts  in  fury;  and  as  deep 
As  the  un fathomed  seas,  where  lost  worlds  sleep. 

And  sad  as  birth,  and  beautiful  as  death. 
As  fervent  as  the  fondest  soul  could  crave, 
Yet  holy  as  the  moonlight  on  a  grave. 
This  is  my  dream  of  Love. 


142  THE 


Yes,  yes,  I  dream.     One  oft-recurring  dream, 

Is  beautiful  and  comforting  and  blest. 

Complete  with  certain  promises  of  rest, 
Divine  content,  and  ecstacy  supreme. 
When  that  strange  essence,  author  of  all  faitn, 

That  subtle  something,  which  cries  for  the  light. 

Like  a  lost  child  who  wanders  in  the  night, 
Shall  solve  the  mighty  mystery  of  Death, 

Shall  find  eternal  progress,  or  sublime 

And  satisfying  slumber  for  all  time. 
This  is  my  dream  of  Death. 


THE  PAST. 

I  fling  my  past  behind  me,  like  a  robe 

Worn  threadbare  in  the  seams,  and  out  of  date. 

1  have  outgrown  it.     Wherefore  should  I  weep 

And  dwell  upon  its  beauty,  and  its  dyes 

Of  Oriental  splendor,  or  complain 

That  I  must  needs  discard  it?     I  can  weave 

Upon  the  shuttles  of  the  future  years 

A  fabric  far  more  durable.     Subdued, 

It  may  be,  in  the  blending  of  its  hues, 

Where  somber  shades  commingle,  yet  the  gleam 

Of  golden  warp  shall  shoot  it  through  and  through, 

While  over  all  a  fadeless  luster  lies, 

And  starred  with  gems  made  out  of  crystalled  tears. 

My  new  robe  shall  be  richer  than  the  old. 


THE   SONNET.  143 


THE   SONNET. 

Alone  it  stands  in  Poesy's  fair  land, 

A  temple  by  the  muses  set  apart; 

A  perfect  structure  of  consummate  art, 
By  artists  builded  and  by  genius  planned. 
Beyond  the  reach  of  the  apprentice  hand, 

Beyond  the  ken  of  the  untutored  heart, 

Like  a  fine  carving  in  a  common  mart, 
Only  the  favored  few  will  understand. 
A  chef-d'oeuvre  toiled  over  with  great  care, 

"Yet  which  the  unseeing  careless  crowd  goes  by, 
A  plainly  set,  but  well-cut  solitaire, 
An  ancient  bit  of  pottery,  too  rare 

To  please  or  hold  aught  save  the  special  eye, 
These  only  with  the  sonnet  can  compare. 


SECRETS. 

Think  not  some  knowledge  rests  with  thee  alono 
Why,  even  God's  stupendous  secret,' Death, 
We  one  by  one,  with  our  expiring  breath, 

Do  pale  with  wonder  seize  and  make  our  own; 

The  bosomed  treasures  of  the  earth  are  shown,, 
Despite  her  careful  hiding;   and  the  air 
Yields  its  mysterious  marvels  in  despair 

To  swell  the  mighty  store-house  of  things  known. 
10 


144  A    DREAM. 

In  vain  the  sea  expostulates  and  raves; 

It  cannot  cover  from  the  keen  world's  sight 
The  curious  wonders  of  its  coral  caves. 
And  so,  despite  thy  caution  or  thy  tears, 
The  prying  fingers  of  detective  years 
Shall  drag  thy  secret  out  into  the  light. 


A  DREAM. 

That  was  a  curious  dream ;  I  thought  the  three 
Great  planets  that  are  drawing  near  the  sun 
With  such  unerring  certainty,  begun 

To  talk  together  in  a  mighty  glee. 

They  spoke  of  vast  convulsions  which  would  be 
Throughout  the  solar  system — the  rare  fun 
Of  watching  haughty  stars  drop,  one  by  one, 

And  vanish  in  a  seething  vapor  sea. 

I  thought  I  heard  them  comment  on  the  earth — 
That  small  dark  object — doomed  beyond  a  doubt. 
They  wondered  if  live  creatures  moved  about 

Its  tiny  surface,  deeming  it  of  worth. 

And  then  they  laughed — 't  was  such  a  ringing  shout 

That  I  awoke  and  joined  too  in  their  mirth. 


USELESSNESS.  145 


USELESSNESS. 

Let  mine  not  be  that  saddest  fate  of  all 

To  live  beyond  my  greater  self;  to  see 

My  faculties  decaying,  as  the  tree 
Stands  stark  and  helpless  while  its  green  leaves  fall. 
Let  me  hear  rather  the  imperious  call, 

Which  all  men  dread,  in  my  glad  morning  time, 

And  follow  death  ere  I  have  reached  my  prime, 
Or  drunk  the  strengthening  cordial  of  life's  gall. 
The  lightning's  stroke  or  the  fierce  tempest  blast 

Which  fells  the  green  tree  to  the  earth  to-day 
Is  kinder  than  the  calm  that  lets  it  last, 

Unhappy  witness  of  its  own  decay. 

May  no  man  ever  look  on  me  and  say, 
"  She  lives,  but  all  her  usefulness  is  past." 


WILL. 

There  is  no  chance,  no  destiny,  no  fate, 
Can  circumvent  or  hinder  or  control 
The  firm  resolve  of  a  determined  soul. 

Gifts  count  for  nothing;  will  alone  is  great; 

All  things  give  way  before  it.  soon  or  late. 
What  obstacle  can  stay  the  mighty  force 
Of  the  sea-seeking  river  in  its  course, 

Or  cause  the  ascending  orb  of  day  to  wait? 


146  WINTER  RAIN. 

Each  well-born  soul  must  win  what  it  deserves. 

Let  the  fool  prate  of  luck.     The  fortunate 
Is  he  whose  earnest  purpose  never  swerves, 
Whose  slightest  action  or  inaction  serves 

The  one  great  aim. 

Why,  even  Death  stands  still, 

And  waits  an  hour  sometimes  for  such  a  will. 


WINTER   RAIN. 

Falling  upon  the  frozen  world  last  night, 
I  heard  the  slow  beat  of  the  Winter  rain — 
Poor  foolish  drops,  down-dripping  all  in  vain; 
The  ice-bound  Earth  but  mocked  their  puny  might, 
Far  better  had  the  fixedness  of  white 
And  uncomplaining  snows — which  make  no  sign, 
But  coldly  smile,  when  pitying  moonbeams  shine — 
Concealed  its  sorrow  from  all  human  sight. 
Long,  long  ago,  in  blurred  and  burdened  years, 
I  learned  the  uselessness  of  uttered  woe. 
Though  sinewy  Fate  deals  her  most  skillful  blow, 
I  do  not  waste  the  gall  now  of  my  tears, 
But  feed  my  pride  upon  its  bitter,  while 
I  look  straight  ill  the  world's  bold  eyes,  and  smile. 


APPLAUSE.  14? 


APPLAUSE. 

J  hold  it  one  of  the  sad  certain  laws 

Which  makes  our  failures  sometimes  seem  more 
kind 

Than  that  success  which  brings  sure  loss  behind — 
True  greatness  dies,  when  sounds  the  world's  applause. 
Fame  blights  the  object  it  would  bless,  because 

Weighed  down  with  men's  expectancy,  the  mind 

Can  no  more  soar  to  those  far  heights,  and  find 
That  freedom  which  its  inspiration  was. 
When  once  we  listen  to  its  noisy  cheers 

Or  hear  the  populace'  approval,  then 
We  catch  no  more  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Or  walk  with  gods,  and  angels,  but  with  men. 
T:ll,  impotent  from  our  self-conscious  fears, 
T"\e  plaudits  of  the  world  turn  into  sneers. 


LIFE. 

Life,  like  a  romping  schoolboy,  full  of  glee, 
Doth  bear  us  on  his  shoulders  fora  time. 
There  is  no  path  too  steep  for  him  to  climb, 
With  strong,  lithe  limbs,  as  agile  and  as  free 
As  some  young  roe,  he  speeds  by  vale  and  sea, 


,48  BURDENED. 

By  flowery  mead,  by  mountain  peak  sublime, 

And  all  the  world  seems  motion  set  to  rhyme, 
Till,  tired  out,  he  cries, "  ^ow  carry  me!" 

In  vain  we  murmur.  "Come,"  Life  says,  "  fair  play !" 
And  seizes  on  us.     God!     he  goads  us  so! 

He  does  not  let  us  sit  down  all  the  day. 
At  each  new  step  we  feel  the  burden  grow, 
Till  oar  bent  backs  seem  breaking  as  we  go, 

Watching  for  Death  to  meet  us  on  the  way. 


BURDENED. 

"Genius,  a  man's  weapon,  a  woman's  burden." — Lamartine, 

Dear  God!  there  is  no  sadder  fate  in  life, 
Than  to  be  burdened  so  that  you  can  not 
Sit  down  contented  with  the  common  lot 

Of  happy  mother  and  devoted  wife. 

To  feel  your  brain  wild  and  your  bosom  rife 
"With  all  the  sea's  commotion;  to  be  fraught 
With  fires  and  frenzies  which  you  have  not  sought, 

And  weighed  down  with  the  wide  world's  weary  strife. 

To  feel  a  fever  alway  in  your  breast, 

To  lean  and  hear  half  in  affright,  halt  shame, 
A  loud-voiced  public  boldly  mouth  your  name, 

To  reap  your  hard-sown  harvest  in  unrest, 

And  know,  however  great  your  meed  of  fame, 

You.  are  but  a  weak  woman  at  the  best. 


THE  STOKY.  149 


THE   STORY. 

They  met  each  other  in  the  glade — 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes; 
Alack  the  day!  Alack  the  maid! 

She  blushed  in  swift  surprise. 

Alas!  alas!  the  woe  that  comes  from  lifting  up  the 
eyes. 

The  pail  was  full,  the  path  was  steep — 

He  reached  to  her  his  hand; 
She  felt  her  warm  young  pulses  leap, 

But  did  not  understand. 

Alas!  alas!   the  woe  that  comes  from  clasping  hand 
with  hand. 

She  sat  beside  him  in  the  wood — 

He  wooed  with  words  and  sighs; 
Ah!  love  in  spring  seems  sweet  and  good, 

And  maidens  are  not  wise. 

Alas!  alas!  the  woe  that  comes  from  listing  lovers' 
sighs. 

The  summer  sun  shone  fairly  down, 

The  wind  blew  from  the  south; 
As  blue  eyes  gazed  in  eyes  of  brown, 

His  kiss  fell  on  her  mouth. 

Alas!  alas!  the  woe  that  comes  from  kisses  on  the 
mouth. 


150  LET  THEM  GO. 

And  now  the  autumn  time  is  near, 

The  lover  roves  away, 
With  breaking  heart  and  falling  tear, 

She  sits  the  livelong  day. 

Alas!   alas!   for  breaking   hearts   when   lovers  rove 
away. 


LET   THEM   GO. 

Let  the  dream  go.     Are  there  not  other  dreams 
In  vastness  of  clouds  hid  from  thv  sight 

i/  O 

That  yet  shall  gild  with  beautiful  gold  gleams, 

And  shoot  the  shadows  through  and  through  with 

light? 

What  matters  one  lost  vision  of  the  night? 
Let  the  dream  go! 

Let  the  hope  set.     Are  there  not  other  hopes 
That  yet  shall  rise  like  new  stars  in  thy  sky? 

Not  long  a  soul  in  sullen  darkness  gropes 
Before  some  light  is  lent  it  from  on  high 
What  folly  to  think  happiness  gone  by! 

Let  the  hope  set! 

Let  the  joy  fade.     Are  there  not  other  joys, 

Like  frost-bound  bulbs,  that  yet  shall    start  and 

bloom? 
Severe  must  be  the  winter  that  destroys 

The  hardy  roots  locked  in  their  silent  tomb. 
What  cares  the  earth  for  her  brief  time  of  gloom? 

Let  the  joy  fadel 


THE   ENGINE.  151 

Let  the  love  die.     Are  there  not  other  loves 
As  beautiful  and  full  of  sweet  unrest, 

Flying;  through  space  like  snowy-pinioned  doves? 
They  yet  shall  come  and  nestle  in  thy  breast, 
And  them  shalt  say  of  each,  "  Lo,  this  is  best!" 

Let  the  love  die! 


THE   ENGINE. 

Into  the  gloom  of  the  deep,  dark  night, 

With  panting  breath  and  a  startled  scream; 

Swift  as  a  bird  in  sudden  flight 

Darts  this  creature  of  steel  and  steam. 

Awful  dangers  are  lurking  nigh, 

Rocks  and  chasms  are  near  the  track, 

But  straight  by  the  light  of  its  great  white  eye 
It  speeds  through  the  shadows,  dense  and  black. 

Terrible  thoughts  and  fierce  desires 
Trouble  its  mad  heart  many  an  hour, 

Where  burn  and  smoulder  the  hidden  fires, 
Coupled  ever  with  might  and  power. 

It  hates,  as  a  wild  horse  hates  the  rein, 

The  narrow  track  by  vale  and  hill; 
And  shrieks  with  a  cry  of  startled  pain, 

And  longs  to  follow  its  own  wild  will. 


152  NOTHING  NEW. 

Oh,  what  am  I  but  an  engine,  shod 

"With  muscle  and  flesh,  by  the  hand  of  God, 

Speeding  on  through  the  dense,  dark  night, 
Guided  alone  by  the  soul's  white  light. 

Often  and  often  my  mad  heart  tires, 
And  hates  its  way  with  a  bitter  hate, 

And  longs  to  follow  its  own  desires, 
And  leave  the  end  in  the  hands  of  fate. 

O,  mighty  engine  of  steel  and  steam; 
O,  human  engine  of  blood  and  bone, 

o 

Follow  the  white  light's  certain  beam — 
There  lies  safety,  and  there  alone. 

The  narrow  track  of  fearless  truth, 
Lit  by  the  soul's  great  eye  of  light, 

O  passionate  heart  of  restless  youth, 
Alone  will  carry  you  through  the  night. 


NOTHING   NEW. 

From  the  dawn  of  spring  till  the  year  grows  hoary, 

Nothing  is  new  that  is  done  or  said, 
The  leaves  are  telling  the  same  old  story — 

%'  Budding,  bursting,  dying,  dead."' 
And  ever  and  always  the  wild  bird's  chorus 

Is  "  coming,  building,  flying,  fled." 


DREAMS.  153 

Never  the  round  earth  roams  or  ranges 

Out  of  her  circuit,  so  old,  so  old, 
And  the  smile  o'  the  sun  knows  but  these  changes — 

.Beaming,  burning,  tender,  cold, 
As  Spring  time  softens  or  Winter  estranges 

The  mighty  heart  of  this  orb  of  gold. 

From  our  great  sire's  birth  to  the  last  morn's  break 
ing 

There  were  tempest,  sunshine,  fruit  and  frost, 
And  the  sea  was  calm  or  the  sea  was  shaking 

His  mighty  main  like  a  lion  crossed, 
And  ever  this  cry  the  heart  was  making — 

Longing,  loving,  losing,  lost. 

Forever  the  wild  wind  wanders,  crying, 

Southerly,  easterly,  north  and  west, 
And  one  worn  song  the  fields  are  sighing, 

"  Sowing,  growing,  harvest,  rest," 
And  the  tired  thought  of  the  world,  replying 

Like  an  echo  to  what  is  last  and  best, 
Murmurs — "  Rest." 


DREAMS. 

Thank  God  for  dreams!     I,  desolate  and  lone, 
In  the  dark  curtained  night,  did  seem  to  be 

The  centre  where  all  golden  sun-rays  shone, 

And,  sitting  there,  held  converse  sweet  with  thee. 


154  DREAMS. 

No  shadow  lurked  between  us;  all  was  bright 
And  beautiful  as  in  the  hours  gone  by, 

I  smiled,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  light 
Of  olden  days  soft  beaming  from  thine  eye. 

Thank  God,  thank  God  for  dreams! 

I  thought  the  birds  all  listened;  for  thy  voice 

Pulsed  through  the  air.  like  beat  of  silver  wings. 
It  made  each  chamber  of  my  soul  rejoice 

And  thrilled  along  my  heart's  tear-rusted  string?. 
As  some  devout  and  ever-prayerful  nun 

Tells  her  bright   beads,  and  counts  them  o'er  and 

o'er, 
Thy  golden  words  I  gathered,  one  by  one, 

And  slipped  them  into  memory's  precious  store. 
Thank  God,  thank  God  for  dreams! 

My  lips  met  thine  in  one  ecstatic  kiss. 

Hand  pressed  in  hand,  and  heart  to  heart  we  sat. 
Why  even  now  I  am  surcharged  with  bliss — 

With  joy  supreme,  if  I  but  think  of  that. 
No  fear  of  separation  or  of  change 

Crept  in  to  mar  our  sweet  serene  content. 
In  that  blest  vision,  nothing  could  estrange 

Our  wedded  souls,  in  perfect  union  blent. 
Thank  God,  thank  God  for  dreams! 

Thank  God  for  dreams!  when  nothing  else  is  left. 

When  the  sick  soul,  all  tortured  with  its  pain, 
Knowing  itself  forever  more  bereft. 

Finds  waiting  hopeless  and  all  watching  vain, 


HELENA.  155 

When  empty  arras  grow  rigid  with  their  ache, 
When  eyes  are  blinded  with  sad  tides  of  tears, 

When  stricken  hearts  do  suffer  yet  not  break, 
For  loss  of  those  who  come  not  with  the  years—- 

Thank  God,  thank  God  for  dreams! 


HELENA. 

Last  night  I  saw  Helena.     She  whose  praise 
Of  late  all  men  have  sounded.     She  for  whom 
Young  Angus  rashly  sought  a  silent  tomb 

Rather  than  live  without  her  all  his  days. 

Wise  men  go  mad  who  look  upon  her  long, 
She  is  so  ripe  with  dangers.     Yet  meanwhile 
I  find  no  fascination  in  her  smile, 

Although  I  make  her  theme  of  this  poor  song. 

"  Her  golden  tresses?"  yes,  they  may  be  fair, 
And  yet  to  me  each  shining  silken  tress 
Seems  robbed  of  beauty  and  all  lusterless — 
Too  many  hands  have  stroked  Helena's  hair. 

(I  know  a  little  maiden  so  demure 

She  will  not  let  her  one  true  lover's  hands 

In  playful  fondness  touch  her  soft  brown  bands. 

So  dainty-minded  is  she,  and  so  pure.) 


156  HE  LEX  A. 

"Her great  dark  eyes  that  flash  like  gems  at  night i 
Large,  long-lashed  eyes  and  lustrous?"  that  may 

be, 

And  yet  they  are  not  beautiful  to  me. 
Too  many  hearts  have  sunned  in  their  delight. 

(I  mind  me  of  two  tender  blue  eyes,  hid 
So  underneath  white  curtains,  and  so  veiled 
That  I  have  sometimes  plead  for  hours,  and  failed 

To  see  more  than  the  shyly  lifted  lid.) 

*'  Her  perfect  mouth  so  like  a  carved  kiss?" 

"  Her   honeyed    mouth,  where    hearts  do,  fly-like, 

drown  ?"' 

7.  would  not  taste  its  sweetness  for  a  crown; 
Too  many  lips  have  drank  its  nectared  bliss. 

(I  know  a  mouth  whose  virgin  dew,  un dried, 

Lies  like  a  young  grape's  bloom,  untouched  and 

sweet, 
And  though  I  plead  in  passion  at  her  feet, 

She  would  not  let  me  brush  it  if  I  died.) 

In  vain,  Helena!  though  wise  men  may  vie 
For  thy  rare  smile  or  die  from  loss  of  it, 
Armored  by  my  sweet  lady's  trust,  I  sit, 

And  know  thou  art  not  worth  her  faintest  sigh. 


NOTHING   REMAINS.  15? 


NOTHING  REMAINS. 

Nothing  remains  of  unrecorded  ages 
That  lie  in  the  silent  cemetery  of  time; 

Their  wisdom  may  have  shamed  our  wisest  sages, 
Their  jjlorv  mav  have  been  indeed  sublime. 

CJ  •/  \J 

How  weak  do  .seem  our  strivings  after  power, 

How  poor  the  grandest  efforts  of  our  brains, 
If  out  of  all  we  are,  in  one  short  hour 
Nothing  remains. 

Nothing  remains  but  the  Eternal  Spaces, 
Time  and  decay  uproot  the  forest  trees. 

Even  the  mighty  mountains  leave  their  places, 
And  sink  their  haughty  heads  beneath  strange  seas; 

The  great  earth  writhes  in  some  convulsive  spasm 
And  turns  the  proudest  cities  into  plains. 

The  level  sea  becomes  a  yawning  chasrn — 
Nothing  remains. 

Nothing  remains  but  the  Eternal  Forces, 
The  sad  seas  cease  complaining  and  grow  dry. 

Rivers  are  drained  and  altered  in  their  courses, 
Great  stars  pass  out  and  vanish  from  the  sky. 

Ideas  die,  and  old  religions  perish, 

Our  rarest  pleasures  and  our  keenest  pains 

Are  swept  away  with  all  we  hate  or  cherish — 
Nothing  remains. 


158  LEAN   DOWN. 

Nothing  remains  but  the  Eternal  Nameless 

And  all-creative  spirit  of  the  Law. 
Uncomprehended,  comprehensive,  blameless, 

Invincible,  resistless,  with  no  flaw; 
So  full  of  love  it  must  create  forever, 

Destroying  that  it  may  create  again — 
Persistent  and  perfecting  in  endeavor, 

It  yet  must  bring  forth  angels,  after  men — 
This,  this  remains. 


LEAN  DOWN. 

Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher,  Josephine! 
From  the  Eternal  Hills  hast  thou  not  seen 
How  I  do  strive  for  heights  I  but  lacking  wings, 
I  cannot  grasp  at  once  those  better  things 
To  which  I  in  my  inmost  soul  aspire. 
Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 

I  grope  along — not  desolate  or  sad, 

For  youth  and  hope  and  health  all  keep  me  glad; 

But  too  bright  sunlight,  sometimes,  makes  us  blin< 

And  I  do  grope  for  heights  I  cannot  find 

Oh,  thou  must  know  my  one  supreme  desire — 

Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 

Not  long  ago  we  trod  the  self-same  way. 
Thou  knowest  how,  from  day  to  fleeting  day 


COMRADES.  159 

Our  souls  were  vexed  with  trifles,  and  our  feet, 
Were  lured  aside  to  by-paths  which  seemed  sweet, 
But  only  served  to  hinder  and  to  tire; 
Lean  down  and  lift  me  higher. 

Thou  hast  gone  onward  to  the  heights  serene, 
And  left  me  here,  my  loved  one,  Josephine; 
I  am  content  to  stay  until  the  end, 
For  life  is  full  of  promise;  but,  my  friend, 
Canst  thou  not  help  me  in  my  best  desire 
And  lean,  and  lift  me  higher? 

Frail  as  thou  wert,  thou  hast  grown  strong  and  wise, 

And  quick  to  understand  and  sympathize 

With  all  a  full  soul's  needs.     It  must  be  so, 

Thy  year  with  God  hath  made  thee  great  I  know. 

Thou  must  see  how  I  struggle  and  aspire — 

Oh,  warm  me  with  a  breath  of  heavenly  fire, 

And  lean,  and  lift  me  higher. 


COMRADES. 

I  and  my  Soul  are  alone  to-day, 

All  in  the  shining  weather; 
"We  were  sick  of  the  world,  and  we  put  it  away, 

So  we  could  rejoice  together, 
11 


160  COMRADES. 

Our  host,  the  Sun,  in  the  blue,  blue  sky, 

Is  mixing  a  rare,  sweet  wine, 
In  the  burnished  gold  of  his  cup  on  high, 

For  me,  and  this  Soul  of  mine. 

We  find  it  a  safe  and  royal  drink, 

And  a  cure  for  every  pain; 
It  helps  us  to  love,  and  helps  us  to  think, 

And  strengthens  body  and  brain. 

And  sitting  here,  with  my  Soul  alone, 

Where  the  yellow  sun-rays  fall, 
Of  all  the  friends  I  have  ever  known 

I  find  it  the  best  of  all. 

We  rarely  meet  when  the  World  is  near, 
For  the  World  hath  a  pleasing  art 

And  brings  me  so  much  that  is  bright  and  dear 
That  my  Soul  it  keepeth  apart. 

But  when  I  grow  weary  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Of  glitter,  and  glow,  and  splendor. 

Like  a  tried  old  friend  it  comes  to  me, 
With  a  smile  that  is  sad  and  tender. 

And  we  walk  together  as  two  friends  may, 
And  laugh,  and  drink  God's  wine. 

Oh,  a  royal  comrade  any  day 
I  find  this  Soul  of  mine. 


WHAT  GAIN?  161 


WHAT   GAIN  ? 

Now,  while  thy  rounded  cheek  is  fresh  and  fair, 
While  beauty  lingers,  laughing,  in  thine  eyes. 
Ere  thy  young  heart  shall  meet  the  stranger,  "Care," 

Or  thy  blithe  soul  become  the  home  of  sighs, 
Were  it  not  kindness  should  I  give  thee  rest 
By  plunging  this  sharp  dagger  in  thy  breast? 
Dying  so  young,  with  all  thy  wealth  of  youth, 
What  part  of  life  wouldst  thou  not  claim,  in  sooth? 

Only  the  woe, 
Sweetheart,  that  sad  souls  know. 

Now,  in  this  sacred  hour  of  supreme  trust, 

Of  pure  delight  and  palpitating  joy, 
Ere  change  can  come,  as  come  it  surely  must, 

With  jarring  doubts  and  discords,  to  destroy 
Our  far  too  perfect  peace,  I  pray  thee,  Sweet, 
Were  it  not  best  for  both  of  us,  and  meet, 
If  I  should  bring  swift  death  to  seal  our  bliss? 
Dying  so  full  of  joy,  what  could  we  miss? 

Nothing  but  tears, 
Sweetheart,  and  weary  years. 

How  slight  the  action!     Just  one  well-aimed  blow 
Here  where  I  feel  thy  warm  heart's  pulsing  beat, 

And  then  another  through  my  own,  and  so 
Our  perfect  union  would  be  made  complete: 


162  LIFE. 

So,  past  all  parting,  I  should  claim  thee  mine. 
Dead  with  our  youth,  and  faith,  and  love  divine, 
Should  we  not  keep  the  best  of  life  that  way? 
What  shall  we  gain  by  living  day  on  day? 

What  shall  we  gain, 
Sweetheart,  but  bitter  pain? 


LIFE. 

I  feel  the  great  immensitv  of  life. 

o  «> 

All  little  aims  slip  from  me,  and  I  reach 
My  yearning  soul  toward  the  Infinite. 

As  when  a  mighty  forest,  whose  green  leases 
Have  shut  it  in,  and  made  it  seem  a  bower 
For  lovers'  secrets,  or  for  children's  sports, 
Casts  all  its  clustering  foliage  to  the  winds. 
And  lets  the  eye  behold  it,  limitless, 
And  full  of  winding  mysteries  of  wa\'s: 
So  now  with  life  that  reaches  out  before, 
And  borders  on  the  unexplained  Beyond. 

I  seethe  stars  above  me,  world  on  world: 
I  hear  the  awful  language  of  all  Space; 
I  feel  the  distant  surging  of  great  seas, 
That  hide  the  secrets  of  the  Universe 
In  their  eternal  bosoms;  and  I  know 
That  I  am  but  an  atom  of  the  Whole, 


TO   THE   WEST.  103 


TO   THE  WEST. 

[In  an  interview  with  Lawrence  Barrett,  he  said:  "The  liter 
ature  of  the  New  World  must  look  to  the  West  for  its  poetry."] 

Not  to  the  crowded  East, 

Where,  in  a  well-worn  groove, 
Like  the  harnessed  wheel  of  a  great  machine, 

The  trammeled  mind  must  move — 
Where  Thought  must  follow  the  fashion  of  Thought, 
Or  be  counted  vulgar  and  set  at  naught. 

Not  to  the  languid  South, 

Where  the  mariners  of  the  brain 
Are  lured  by  the  Sirens  of  the  Sense, 

And  wrecked  upon  its  main — 

Where  Thought  is  rocked,  on  the  sweet  wind's  breath, 
To  a  torpid  sleep  that  ends  in  death. 

But  to  the  mighty  West, 

That  chosen  realm  of  God, 
Where  Nature  reaches  her  hands  to  men, 

And  Freedom  walks  abroad — 
Where  mind  is  King,  and  fashion  is  naught: 
There  shall  the  New  World  look  for  thought. 

To  the  West,  the  beautiful  West, 

She  shall  look,  and  not  in  vain — 
For  out  of  its  broad  and  boundless  store 

Come  muscle,  and  nerve,  and  brain. 
Let  the  bards  of  the  East  and  the  Soutli  be  dumb — 
For  out  of  the  West  shall  the  Poets  come. 


164  THE  LAND  OF  CONTENT.; 

They  shall  come  with  souls  as  great 
As  the  cradle  where  they  were  rocked; 

They  shall  come  with  brows  that  are  touched  with 

fire, 
Like  the  Gods  with  whom  they  have  walked; 

They  shall  come  from  the  West  in  royal  state, 

The  Singers  and  Thinkers  for  whom  we  wait. 


THE  LAND  OF  CONTENT. 

I  set  out  for  the  Land  of  Content, 

By  the  gay  crowded  pleasure-highway, 
With  laughter,  and  jesting.  I  went 

With  the  mirth-loving  throng  for  a  day; 
Then  I  knew  I  had  wandered  astray, 
For  I  met  returned  pilgrims,  belated, 
Who  said,  "  We  are  weary  and  sated, 
But  we  found  not  the  Land  of  Content." 

I  turned  to  the  steep  path  of  fame, 
I  said,  "It  is  over  yon  height — 

This  land  with  the  beautiful  name — 
Ambition  will  lend  me  its  light." 
But  I  paused  in  my  journey  ere  night, 

For  the  way  grew  so  lonely  and  troubled; 

I  said — my  anxiety  doubled — 
"  This  is  not  the  road  to  Content." 


A   SONG  OF   LIFE.  165 

Then  I  joined  the  great  rabble  and  throng 
That  frequents  the  moneyed  world's  mart; 

But  the  greed,  and  the  grasping  and  wrong, 
Left  me  only  one  wish — to  depart. 
And  sickened,  and  saddened  at  heart, 

I  hurried  away  from  the  gateway, 

For  my  soul  and  my  spirit  said  straightway, 

This  is  not  the  road  to  Content." 

Then  weary  in  body  and  brain, 
An  overgrown  path  I  detected, 

And  I  said  "I  will  hide  with  my  pain 
In  this  by-way,  unused  and  neglected." 
Lo!  it  led  to  the  realm  God  selected 

To  crown  with  his  best  gifts  of  beauty, 

And  through  the  dark  pathway  of  duty 

I  came  to  the  land  of  Content. 


A  SONG  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  rapture  of  life  and  of  living, 

I  lift  up  my  heart  and  rejoice, 
And  I  thank  the  great  Giver  for  giving 

The  soul  of  my  gladness  a  voice. 
In  the  glow  of  the  glorious  weather, 

In  the  sweet-scented  sensuous  air, 
My  burdens  seem  light  as  a  feather — 

They  are  nothing  to  bear- 


1GG  A  S(XNG   OF   LIFE. 

In  the  strength  and  the  glory  of  power, 

In  the  pride  and  the  pleasure  ot  wealth, 
(For  who  dares  dispute  me  my  dower 

Of  talents  and  youth-time  and  health?) 
I  can  laugh  at  the  world  and  its  sages — 

I  am  greater  than  seers  who  are  sad, 
For  he  is  most  wise  in  all  ages 

Who  knows  how  to  be  glad. 

I  lift  up  my  eyes  to  Apollo, 

The  god  of  the  beautiful  days, 
And  my  spirit  soars  off  like  a  swallow 

And  is  lost  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 
Are  you  troubled  and  sad  ?     I  beseech  you 

Come  out  of  the  shadows  of  strife — 
Come  out  in  the  sun  while  I  teach  you 

The  secret  of  life. 

Come  out  of  the  world — come  above  it — 

Up  over  its  crosses  and  graves. 
Though  the  green  earth  is  fair  and  I  love  it, 

We  must  love  it  as  masters,  not  slaves. 
Come  up  where  the  dust  never  rises — 

But  only  the  perfume  of  flowers — 
And  your  life  shall  be  glad  with  surprises 

Of  beautiful  hours. 
Come  up  where  the  rare  golden  wine  is 

Apollo  distills  in  my  sight, 
And  your  life  shall  be  happy  as  mine  is, 

And  as  full  of  delight. 


WARNING.  167 


WARNING. 

High  in  the  heavens  I  saw  the  moon  thi*  morning, 

Albeit  the  sun  shone  bright; 
Unto  my  soul  it  spoke,  in  voice  of  warning, 
"  Remember  Night!" 


THE    CHRISTIAN'S    NEW    YEAR 
PRAYER. 

Thou  Christ  of  mine,  thy  gracious  ear  low  bending 

Through  these  glad  New  Year  days, 
To  catch  the  countless  prayers  to  Heaven  ascending,- 

For  e'en  hard  hearts  do  raise 
Some  secret  wish  for  fame,  or  gold,  or  power, 

Or  freedom  from  all  care — 
Dear,  patient  Christ,  who  listeneth  hour  on  hour, 

Hear  now  a  Christian's  prayer. 

Let  this  young  year  that,  silent,  walks  beside  me, 

Be  as  a  means  of  grace 
To  lead  me  up,  no  matter  what  betide  me, 

Nearer  the  Master's  face. 
If  it  need  be  that  ere  I  reach  the  fountain 

Where  Living  waters  play, 


168  IN  THE   NIGHT. 

My  feet  should  bleed  from  sharp  stones  on  the  moun  • 

tain, 
Then  cast  them  in  my  way. 

If  my  vain  soul  needs  blows  and  bitter  losses 

To  shape  it  for  thy  crown, 
Then  bruise  it,  burn  it,  burden  it  with  crosses, 

With  sorrows  bear  it  down. 
Do  what  thou  wilt  to  mold  me  to  thy  pleasure, 

And  if  I  should  complain, 
Heap  full  of  anguish  yet  another  measure 

Until  I  smile  at  pain. 
Send  dangers — deaths!  but  tell  me  how  to  dare  them; 

Enfold  me  in  thy  care. 
Send  trials,  tears!  but  give  me  strength  to  bear  them — 

This  is  a  Christian's  prayer. 


IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Sometimes  at  night,  when  I  sit  and  write, 

I  hear  the  strangest  things, — 
As  my  brain  grows  hot  with  burning  thought. 

That  struggles  for  form  and  wings, 
I  can  hear  the  beat  of  my  swift  blood's  feet, 

As  it  speeds  with  a  rush  and  a  whir 
From  heart  to  brain  and  back  again, 

Like  a  race-horse  under  the  spur. 


GOD'S   MEASURE.  100 

With  my  soul's  fine  ear  I  listen  and  hear 

The  tender  Silence  speak, 
As  it  leans  on  the  breast  of  Night  to  rest, 

And  presses  his  dusky  cheek. 
And  the  darkness  turns  in  its  sleep,  and  yearns 

For  something  that  is  kin; 
And  I  hear  the  hiss  of  a  scorching  kiss, 

As  it  folds  and  fondles  Sin. 

In  its  hurrying  race  through  leagues  of  space, 

I  can  hear  the  Earth  catch  breath, 
As  it  heaves  and  moans,  and  shudders  and  groans. 

And  longs  for  the  rest  of  Death. 
And  high  and  far,  from  a  distant  star, 

Whose  name  is  unknown  to  me, 
I  hear  a  voice  that  says,  "  Rejoice, 

For  I  keep  ward  o'er  theet" 

Oh,  sweet  and  strange  are  the  sounds  that  range 

Through  the  chambers  of  the  night; 
And  the  watcher  who  waits  by  the  dim,  dark  gates, 

May  hear,  if  he  lists  aright. 


GOD'S  MEASURE. 

God  measures  souls  by  their  capacity 
For  entertaining  his  best  Angel,  Love. 
Who  loveth  most  is  nearest  kin  to  God, 
Who  is  all  Love,  or  Nothing. 


J0  A  MARCH  *  SNOW. 

He  who  sits 

And  looks  out  on  the  palpitating  world, 
And  feels  his  heart  swell  in  him  large  enough 
To  hold  all  men  within  it,  he  is  near 
His  great  Creator's  standard,  though  he  dwells 
Outside  the  pale  of  churches,  and  knows  not 
A  feast-day  from  a  fast-day,  or  a  line 
Of  Scripture  even.     What  God  wants  of  us 
Is  that  outreaching  bigness  that  ignores 
All  littleness  of  aims,  or  loves,  or  creeds, 
And  clasps  all  Earth  and  Heaven  in  its  embrace. 


A  MARCH  SNOW. 

Let  the  old  snow  be  covered  with  the  new: 

The   trampled    sno\v,    so  soiled,  and  stained,  and 
sodden. 

Let  it  be  hidden  wholly  from  our  view 

By  pure  white  flakes,  all  trackless  and  untrodden. 

When  Winter  dies,  low  at  the  sweet  Spring's  feet 

Let  him  be  mantled  in  a  clean,  white  sheet. 

Let  the  old  life  be  covered  by  the  new: 

The  old  past  life  so  full  of  sad  mistakes, 
Let  it  be  wholly  hidden  from  the  view 

By  deeds  as  white  and  silent  as  snow-flakes. 
Ere  this  earth  life  melts  in  the  eternal  Spring 
Let  the  white  mantle  of  repentance,  fling 
Soft  drapery  about  it,  fold  on  fold, 
Even  as  the  new  snow  covers  up  the  old. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER.       171 


AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER. 

[Read  at  Re-union  of  the  G.  A.  T.,  Madison,  Wis.,  July  4, 1872.] 

After  the  battles  are  over, 

And  the  war  drums  cease  to  beat, 
And  no  more  is  heard  on  the  hillside 

The  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
Full  many  a  noble  action, 

That  was  done  in  the  days  of  strife, 
By  the  soldier  is  half  forgotten, 

In  the  peaceful  walks  of  life. 

Just  as  the  tangled  grasses, 

In  Summer's  warmth  and  light, 
Grow  over  the  graves  of  the  fallen 

And  hide  them  away  from  sight, 
So  many  an  act  of  valor, 

And  many  a  deed  sublime, 
Fade  from  the  mind  of  the  soldier, 

O'ergrown  by  the  grass  of  time. 

Not  so  should  they  be  rewarded, 

Those  noble  deeds  of  old; 
They  should  live  forever  and  ever, 

"When  the  heroes'  hearts  are  cold. 
Then  rally,  ye  brave  old  comrades, 

Old  veterans,  re-unite! 
Uproot  Time's  tangled  grasses — 

Live  over  the  march,  and  the  fight. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER. 

Let  Grant  come  up  from  the  "White  House, 

And  clasp  each  brother's  hand, 
First  chieftain  of  the  army. 

Last  chieftain  of  the  land. 
Let  him  rest  from  a  nation's  burdens, 

And  go,  in  thought,  with  his  men, 
Through  the  fire  and  smoke  of  Shiloh, 

And  save  the  day  again. 

This  silent  hero  of  battles 

Knew  no  such  word  as  defeat. 
It  was  left  for  the  rebels'  learning, 

Along  with  the  word — retreat. 
He  was  not  given  to  talking, 

But  he  found  that  guns  would  preach 
In  a  way  that  was  more  convincing 

Than  fine  and  flowery  speech. 

Three  cheers  for  the  grave  commander 

Of  the  grand  old  Tennessee! 
Who  won  the  first  great  battle — 

Gained  the  first  great  victory. 
His  motto  was  always  "'  Conquer," 

"Success"  was  his  countersign, 
And  "  though  it  took  all  Summer," 

He  kept  fighting  upon  "  that  line." 

Let  Sherman,  the  stern  old  General, 

Come  rallying  with  his  men; 
Let  them  march  once  more  through  Georgia 

And  down  to  the  sea  again. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER.       173 

Oh!  that  grand  old  tramp  to  Savannah, 
Three  hundred  miles  to  the  coast, 

It  will  live  in  the  heart  of  the  nation, 
Forever  its  pride  and  boast. 

As  Sheridan  went  to  the  battle, 

When  a  score  of  miles  away, 
He  has  come  to  the  feast  and  banquet, 

By  the  iron  horse,  to-day. 
Its  pace  is  not  much  swifter 

Than  the  pace  of  that  famous  steed 
Which  bore  him  down  to  the  contest 

And  saved  the  day  by  his  speed. 

Then  go  over  the  ground  to-day,  boys, 

Tread  each  remembered  spot. 
It  will  be  a  gleesome  journey, 

On  the  swift-shod  feet  of  thought; 
You  can  fight  a  bloodless  battle, 

You  can  skirmish  along  the  route, 
But  it's  not  worth  while  to  forage, 

There  are  rations  enough  without. 

Don't  start  it  you  hear  the  cannon, 

It  is  not  the  sound  of  doom, 
It  does  not  call  to  the  contest — 

To  the  battle's  smoke  and  gloom. 
"Let  us  have  peace,"  was  spoken, 

And  lo!  peace  ruled  again; 
And  now  the  nation  is  shouting, 

Through  the  cannon's  voice,  "Amen," 


Ill       AFTER  THE  BATTLES  ARE  OVER. 

O  boys  who  besieged  old  Vicksburg, 

Can  time  e'er  wash  away 
The  triumph  of  her  surrender, 

Nine  years  ago  to-day? 
Can  you  ever  forget  the  moment, 

When  you  saw  the  flag  of  white, 
That  told  how  the  grim  old  city 

Had  fallen  in  her  might? 

Ah,  't  was  a  bold  brave  army, 

When  the  boys,  with  a  right  good  will, 
Went  <;ayly  marching  and  sinirinir 

O     w     •/  O  O         •—> 

To  the  fight  at  Champion  Hill. 
They  met  with  a  warm  reception. 

But  the  soul  of  "  Old  John  Brown  " 
Was  abroad  on  that  field  of  battle, 

And  our  flag  did  NOT  go  down. 

Come,  heroes  of  Look  Out  Mountain, 

Of  Corinth  and  Donelson, 
Of  Kenesaw  and  Atlanta, 

And  tell  how  the  day  was  won! 
Hush!  bow  the  head  for  a  moment — 

There  are  those  who  cannot  come. 
No  bugle-call  can  arouse  them — 

No  sound  of  fife  or  drum. 

Oh,  boys  who  died  for  the  country, 
Oh,  dear  and  sainted  dead! 

What  can  we  say  about  you 
That  has  not  once  been  said? 


AFTER  THJS  BATTLES  ARE  OVER. 

Whether  you  fell  in  the  contest, 
Struck  down  by  shot  and  shell, 

Or  pined  'neath  the  hand  of  sickness 
Or  starved  in  the  prison  cell, 

We  know  that  you  died  for  Freedom, 
To  save  our  land  from  shame, 

To  rescue  a  periled  Nation, 

And  we  give  you  deathless  fame. 

'T  was  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Justice 
That  you  fought  and  perished  for, 

And  we  say  it,  oh,  so  gently, 
"  Our  boys  who  died  in  the  war." 

Saviors  of  our  Republic, 

Heroes  who  wore  the  blue, 
We  owe  the  peace  that  surrounds  us — 

And  our  Nation's  strength  to  you. 
We  owe  it  to  you  that  our  banner, 

The  fairest  flag  in  the  world, 
Is  to-day  unstained,  unsullied, 

On  the  Summer  air  unfurled. 

We  look  on  its  stripes  and  spangles, 

And  our  hearts  are  filled  the  \vhile 
With  love  for  the  brave  commanders, 

And  the  boys  of  the  rank  and  tile. 
The  grandest  deeds  of  valor 

Were  never  written  out, 
The  noblest  acts  of  virtue 

The  world  knows  nothing  about. 
12 


176       AFTER  THE  BATTLES  AKE  OVER. 

And  many  a  private  soldier, 

Who  walks  his  humble  way, 
With  no  sounding  name  or  title, 

Unknown  to  the  world  to  day, 
In  the  eyes  of  God  is  a  hero 

As  worthy  of  the  bays, 
As  any  mighty  General 

To  whom  the  world  gives  praise. 

Brave  men  of  a  mighty  army, 

We  extend  you  friendship's  hand! 
I  speak  for  the  "  Loyal  Women," 

Those  pillars  of  our  land. 
We  wish  you  a  hearty  welcome, 

We  are  proud  that  you  gather  hero 
To  talk  of  old  times  together 

On  this  brightest  day  in  the  year. 

And  if  Peace,  whose  snow-white  pinions, 

Brood  over  our  land  to-day, 
Should  ever  again  go  from  us, 

(God  grant  she  may  ever  stay!) 
Should  our  Nation  call  in  her  peril 

For  "  Six  hundred  thousand  more,/' 
The  loyal  women  would  hear  her, 

And  send  you  out  as  before. 

We  would  bring  out  the  treasured  knapsack, 
We  would  take  the  sword  from  the  wall, 

And  hushing  our  own  hearts'  pleadings, 
Hear  only  the  country's  call. 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE. 

For  next  to  our  God,  is  our  Nation; 

And  we  cherish  the  honored  name, 
Of  the  bravest  of  all  brave  armies 

Who  fought  for  that  Nation's  fame. 


NOBLESSE  OBLIGE. 

I  hold  it  the  duty  of  one  who  is  gifted 
And  specially  dowered  in  all  men's  sight, 

To  know  no  rest  till  his  life  is  lifted 
Fully  up  to  his  great  gifts'  height. 

lie  must  mold  the  man  into  rare  completeness, 
For  erems  are  set  only  in  £old  refined. 

o  */  o 

lie  must  fashion  his  thoughts  into  perfect  sweetness, 
And  cast  out  folly  and  pride  from  his  mind. 

For  he  who  drinks  from  a  god's  gold  fountain 

Of  art  or  music  or  rhythmic  song 
Must  sift  from  his  soul  the  chaff  of  malice, 

And  weed  from  his  heart  the  roots  of  wrong. 

Great  gifts  should  be  worn,  like  a  crown  befitting! 

And  not  like  gems  in  a  beggar's  hands. 
And  the  toil  must  be  constant  and  unremitting 

Which  lifts  up  the  king  to  the  crown's  demands. 


AND  THEY  ARE   DUMB. 


AND  THEY  ARE  DUMB. 

I  have  been  across  the  bridges  of  the  years. 

"Wet  with  tears 
Were  the  ties  on  which  I  trod,  going  back 

Down  the  track 
To  the  valley  where  I  left,  'neath  skies  of  Truth, 

My  lost  youth. 

As  I  went,  I  dropped  my  burdens,  one  and  all — 

Let  them  fall ; 
All  my  sorrows,  all  my  wrinkles,  all  my  care, 

My  white  hair, 
I  laid  down,  like  some  lone  pilgrim's  heavy  pack, 

By  the  track. 


As  I  neared  the  happy  valley  with  light  feet« 

My  heart  beat 
To  the  rhythm  of  a  song  I  used  to  know 

Long  ago, 
And  my  spirits  gushed  and  bubbled  like  a  fountain 

Down  a  mountain. 

On  the  border  of  that  valley  I  found  you, 

Tried  and  true; 
And  we  wandered  through  the  golden  Summer-Land, 

Hand  in  hand. 
And  my  pulses  beat  with  rapture  in  the  blisses 

Of  your  kisses. 


XIGHT.  K<.) 

And  we  met  there,  in  those  green  and  verdant  places, 

Smiling  laces, 
And  sweet  laughter  echoed  upward  from  the  dells 

Like  gold  bells. 
And  the  world  was  spilling  over  with  the  glory 

Of  Youth's  story. 

It  was  but  a  dreamer's  journey  of  the  brain; 

And  again 
I  have  left  the  happy  valley  far  behind; 

And  I  find 
Time  stands  waiting  with  his  burdens  in  a  pack 

For  my  back. 

As  he  speeds  me,  like  a  rough,  well-meaning  friend, 

To  the  end, 
Will  I  find  again  the  lost  ones  loved  so  well? 

Who  can  tell! 
But  the  dead  know  what  the  life  will  be  to  corne — 

And  they  are  dumb! 


NIGHT. 

As  some  dusk  mother  shields  from  all  alarms 

The  tired  child  she  gathers  to  her  breast, 
The  brunette  Ni«;ht  doth  fold  me  in  her  arms, 

o 

And  hushes  me  to  perfect  peace  and  rest. 
Her  eyes  of  stars  shine  on  me,  and  I  hear 
Her  voice  of  winds  low  crooning  on  my  ear. 


180  XIGHT. 

()  Xight,  O  Xight,  how  beautiful  thou  art! 
Come,  fold  me  closer  to  thy  pulsing  heart. 

The  day  is  full  of  gladness,  and  the  light 
So  beautifies  the  common  outer  things, 

I  only  see  with  my  external  sight, 

And  only  hear  the  great  world's  voice  which  rings 

But  silently  from  daylight  and  from  din 

i/  t/          O 

The     sweet     Xight     draws    me — whispers.    "  Look 

within!" 

And  looking,  as  one  wakened  from  a  dream, 
I  see  what  is — no  longer  what  doth  seem. 


.- 


The  Xight  says,  "Listen!''  and  upon  my  ear 

Revealed,  as  are  the  visions  to  my  sight, 
The  voices  known  as  "  Beautiful  "  come  near 

And  whisper  of  the  vasty  Infinite. 
Great,  blue-eyed  Truth,  her  sister  Purity, 
Their  brother  Honor,  all  converse  with  me, 
And  kiss  my  brow,  and  say,  '"  Be  brave  of  heart!'' 
O  holy  three!  how  beautiful  thou  art! 

The  Xight  says,  "  Child,  sleep  that  thou  may'st  arise 

Strong  for  to-morrow's  struggle."     And  I  feel 
Her  shadowy  fingers  pressing  on  my  eyes: 

Like  thistledown  I  float  to  the  Ideal — 
The  Slurnberland,  made  beautiful  and  bright 
As  death,  by  dreams  of  loved  ones  gone  from  sight, 
O  food  for  soul's,  sweet  dreams  of  pure  delight, 
How  beautiful  the  holy  hours  of  Night! 


ALL  FOR  ME.  181 


ALL  FOR  ME. 

The  world  grows  green  on  a  thousand  hills — 

By  a  thousand  willows  the  bees  are  humming, 
And  a  million  birds  by  a  million  rills, 

Sing  of  the  golden  season  coming. 
But,  gazing  out  on  the  sun-kist  lea, 

And  hearing  a  thrush  and  a  blue-bird  singing, 
I  feel  that  the  Summer  is  all  for  me, 

And  all  for  me  are  the  joys  it  is  bringing. 

All  for  me  the  bumble-bee 

Drones  his  song  in  the  perfect  weather; 
And,  just  on  purpose  to  sing  to  me, 

Thrush  and  blue-bird  came  Korth  together. 
Just  for  me,  in  red  and  white, 

Bloom  and  blossom  the  fields  of  clover; 
And  all  for  me  and  my  delight 

The  wild  Wind  follows  and  plays  the  lover. 

The  mighty  sun,  with  a  scorching  kiss 

(I  have  read,  and  heard,  and  do  not  doubt  it), 
Has  burned  up  a  thousand  worlds  like  this, 

And  never  stopped  to  think  about  it. 
And  yet  I  believe  lie  hurries  up 

Just  on  purpose  to  kiss  my  flowers — 
To  drink  the  dew  from  the  lily-cup, 

And  help  it  to  grow  through  golden  hours. 


182  PHILOSOPHY. 

I  know  I  am  only  a  speck  of  dust, 

An  individual  mite  of  masses, 
Clinging  upon  the  outer  crust 

Of  a  little  ball  of  cooling  gases. 
And  yet,  and  yet,  say  what  you  will, 

And  laugh,  if  you  please,  at  my  lack  of  reason. 
For  me  wholly,  and  for  me  still, 

Blooms  and  blossoms  the  Summer  season. 

* 

Nobody  else  has  ever  heard 

The  story  the  "Wind  to  me  discloses; 
And  none  but  I  and  the  humming-bird 

Can  read  the  hearts  of  the  crimson  roses. 
Ah,  my  Summer — my  love — my  own! 

The  world  grows  glad  in  your  smiling  weather; 
Yet  all  for  me,  and  me  alone, 

You  and  your  Court  came  north  together. 


PHILOSOPHY. 

At  morn  the  wise  man  walked  abroad, 
-    Proud  with  the  learning  of  great  fools. 
He  laughed  and  said,  "There  is  no  God — 
'T  is  force  creates,  't  is  reason  rules." 

Meek  with  the  \visdom  of  great  faith. 
At  night  he  knelt  while  angels  smiled, 

And  wept  and  cried  with  anguished  breath, 
"Jehovah,  God,  save  thou  my  child." 


« CARLOS."  183 


"CARLOS." 

Last  night  I  knelt  low  at  my  lady's  feet. 
One  soft,  caressing  hand  played  with  my  hair, 
And  one  I  kissed  and  fondled.     Kneeling  there, 
I  deemed  my  meed  of  happiness  complete. 

She  was  so  fair,  so  full  of  witching  wiles — 

Of  fascinating  tricks  of  mouth  and  eye; 

So  womanly  withal,  but  not  too  shy — 

And  all  my  heaven  was  compassed  by  her  smiles. 

Her  soft  touch  on  my  cheek  and  forehead  sent, 
Like  little  arrows,  thrills  of  tenderness 
Through  all  my  frame.     I  trembled  with  excess 
Of  love,  and  sighed  the  sigh  of  great  content. 

When  any  mortal  dares  to  so  rejoice, 
I  think  a  jealous  Heaven,  bending  low, 
.Reaches  a  stern  hand  forth  and  deals  a  blow. 
Sweet  through  the  dusk  I  heard  my  lady's  voice. 

"My  love!"  she  sighed,  "My  Carlos!''  even  now 
I  feel  the  perfumed  zephyr  of  her  breath 
Bearing  to  mo  those  words  of  living  death, 
And  starting  out  the  cold  drops  on  my  brow. 


184  "  CARLOS." 

For  I  am  Paul — not  Carlos!     "Who  is  he 
That,  in  the  supreme  hour  of  love's  delight, 
Veiled  by  the  shadows  of  the  falling  night, 
She  should  breathe  low  his  name,  forgetting  me? 

I  will  not  ask  her!  't  were  a  fruitless  task, 
Fur,  woman-like,  she  would  make  me  believe 
Some  well-told  tale;  and  sigh,  and  seem  to  grieve, 
And  call  me  cruel.     Xay,  I  will  not  ask. 

But  this  man  Carlos,  whosoe'er  he  be, 
Has  turned  my  cup  of  nectar  into  gall, 
Since  I  know  he  has  claimed  some  one  or  all 
Of  these  delights  my  lady  grants  to  me. 

lie  must  have  knelt  and  kissed  her,  in  some  sad 
And  tender  twilight,  when  the  day  grew  dim. 
How  else  could  I  remind  her  so  of  him  ''. 
Why,  reveries  like  these  have  made  men  mad! 

He  must  have  felt  her  soft  hand  on  his  brow. 
If  Heaven  was  shocked  at  such  presumptuous  wrongs, 
And  plunged  him  in  the  grave,  where  he  belongs, 
Still  she  remembers,  though  she  loves  me  now. 

And  if  he  lives,  and  meets  me  to  his  cost, 
Why,  what  avails  it?     I  must  hear  and  see 
That  curst  name  "  Carlos  "  always  haunting  me — 
So  has  another  Paradise  been  lost. 


THE  TWO  GLASSES.  185 


THE   TWO   GLASSES. 

There  sat  two  glasses  filled  to  the  brim, 
On  a  rich  man's  table,  rim  to  rim. 
One  was  ruddy  and  red  as  blood, 
And  one  was  clear  as  the  crystal  flood. 

Said  the  glass  of  wine  to  his  paler  brother, 
"Let  us  tell  tales  of  the  past  to  each  other; 

I  can  tell  of  banquet,  and  revel,  and  mirth, 

Where  I  was  king,  for  I  ruled  in  might; 

For  the  proudest  and  grandest  souls  on  earth 

Fell  under  my  touch,  as  though  struck  with  blight. 

From  the  heads  of  kings  I  have  torn  the  crown; 

From  the  heights  of  fame  I  have  hurled  men  down. 

I  have  blasted  many  an  honored  name; 

I  have  taken  virtue  and  given  shame; 

I  have  tempted  the  youth  with  a  sip,  a  taste, 

That  has  made  his  future  a  barren  waste. 

Far  greater  than  any  king  am  I, 

Or  than  any  army  beneath  the  sky. 

I  have  made  the  arm  of  the  driver  fail, 

And  sent  the  train  from  the  iron  rail. 

I  have  made  good  ships  go  down  at  sea, 

And  the  shrieks  of  the  lost  were  sweet  to  me. 

Fame,  strength,  wealth,  genius  before  me  fall; 

And  my  might  and  power  are  over  all! 

Ho,  ho!  pale  brother,"  said  the  wine, 
"  Can  you  boast  of  deeds  as  great  as  mine?" 

w  O 


186  THE   TWO   GLASSES. 

Said  the  water-glass:  "  I  cannot  boast 

Of  a  king  dethroned,  or  a  murdered  host, 

But  I  can  tell  of  hearts  that  were  sad 

By  my  crystal  drops  made  bright  and  glad; 

Of  thirsts  I  have  quenched,  and  brows  I  have  laved; 

Of  hands  I  have  cooled,  and  souls  I  have  saved. 

I  have  leaped  through  the  valley,  dashed  down  the 
mountain, 

Slept  in  the  sunshine,  and  dripped  from  the  foun 
tain. 

I  have  burst  my  cloud-fetters,  and  dropped  from  the 

sky, 

And  everywhere  gladdened  the  prospect  and  eye; 
I  have  eased  the  hot  forehead  of  fever  and  pain ; 
I  have  made  the  parched  meadows  grow  fertile  with 

grain. 

I  can  tell  of  the  powerful  wheel  of  the  mill, 
That  ground  out  the  flour,  and  turned  at  my  will. 
I  can  tell  of  manhood  debased  by  you, 
That  I  have  uplifted  and  crowned  anew; 
I  cheer,  I  help,  I  strengthen  and  aid; 
I  gladden  the  heart  of  man  and  maid; 
I  set  the  wine-chained  captive  free, 
And  all  are  better  for  knowing  me." 

These  are  the  tales  they  told  each  other, 
The  glass  of  wine  and  its  paler  brother, 
As  they  sat  together,  filled  to  the  brim, 
On  a  rich  man's  table,  rim  to  rim. 


THKOUG1I   TEAKS.  18? 


THROUGH  TEARS. 

An  artist  toiled  over  his  pictures; 

He  labored  by  night  and  by  day. 
He  struggled  for  glory  and  honor, 

But  the  world,  it  had  nothing  to  say. 
His  walls  were  ablaze  with  the  splendors 

We  see  in  the  beautiful  skies; 
But  the  world  beheld  only  the  colors 

That  were  made  out  of  chemical  dyes. 

Time  sped.     And  he  lived,  loved,  and  suffered; 

He  passed  through  the  valley  of  grief. 
Again  he  toiled  over  his  canvas, 

Since  in  labor  alone  was  relief. 
It  showed  not  the  splendor  of  colors 

Of  those  of  his  earlier  years, 
But  the  world?  the  world  bowed  down  before  it, 

Because  it  was  painted  with  tears. 

A  poet  was  gifted  with  genius, 

And  he  sang,  and  he  sang  all  the  days. 
He  wrote  for  the  praise  of  the  people, 

But  the  people  accorded  no  praise. 
Oh,  his  songs  were  as  blithe  as  the  morning, 

As  sweet  as  the  music  of  birds; 
But  the  world  had  no  homage  to  offer, 

Because  they  were  nothing  but  words. 


188  D\TO    SPACE. 

Time  sped.     And  the  poet  through  sorrow 

Became  like  his  suffering  kind. 
Again  he  toiled  over  his  poems 

To  lighten  the  grief  of  his  mind. 
They  were  not  so  flowing  and  rhythmic 

As  those  of  his  earlier  years, 
But  the  world?  lo!  it  offered  its  homage 

Because  they  were  written  in  tears. 

So  ever  the  price  must  be  given 

By  those  seeking  glory  in  art; 
So  ever  the  world  is  repaying 

The  grief-stricken,  suffering  heart. 
The  happy  must  ever  be  humble; 

Ambition  must  wait  for  the  years, 
Ere  hoping  to  win  the  approval 

Of  a  world  that  looks  on  through  its  tears. 


INTO    SPACE. 

If  the  sad  old  world  should  jump  a  cog 

Sometime,  in  its  dizzy  spinning, 
And  go  oft'  the  track  with  a  sudden  jog, 

What  an  end  would  come  to  the  sinning. 
"What  a  rest  from  strife  and  the  burdens  of  life 

For  the  millions  of  people  in  it, 
What  a  way  out  of  care,  aiid  worry  and  wear, 

All  in  a  beautiful  minute. 


INTO   SPACE.  189 

As  'round  the  sun  with  a  curving  sweep 

It  hurries  and  runs  and  races, 
Should  it  lose  its  balance,  and  go  with  a  leap 

Into  the  vast  sea-spaces, 
What  a  blest  relief  it  would  bring  to  the  grief, 

And  the  trouble  and  toil  about  us, 
To  be  suddenly  hurled  from  the  solar  world 

And  let  it  go  on  without  us. 

With  not  a  sigh  or  a  sad  good-by 

For  loved  ones  left  behind  us, 
We  would  go  with  a  lunge  and  a  mighty  plunge 

Where  never  a  grave  should  find  us. 
What  a  wild  mad  thrill  our  veins  would  fill 

As  the  great  earth,  like  a  feather, 
Should  float  through  the  air  to  God  knows  where, 

And  carry  us  all  together. 

No  dark,  damp  tomb  and  no  mourner's  gloom, 

No  tolling  bell  in  the  steeple. 
But  in  one  swift  breath  a  painless  death 

Fora  million  billion  people. 
What  greater  bliss  could  we  ask  than  this, 

To  sweep  with  a  bird's  free  motion 
Through  leagues  of  space  to  a  resting  place, 

In  a  vast  and  vapory  ocean — 
To  pass  away  from  this  life  for  aye 

With  never  a  dear  tie  sundered, 
And  a  world  on  fire  for  a  funeral  pyre, 

While  the  stars  looked  on  and  wondered? 


190  THROUGH   DIM   EYES. 


THROUGH  DIM  EYES. 

Is  it  the  world,  or  my  eyes,  that  are  sadder? 

I  see  not  the  grace  that  I  used  to  see 

In  the  meadow-brook  whose  song  was  so  glad,  or 

In  the  boughs  of  the  willow  tree. 

The  brook  runs  slower — its  song  seems  lower, 

And  not  the  song  that  it  sang  of  old; 

And  the  tree  I  admired  looks  weary  and  tired 

Of  the  changeless  story  of  heat  and  cold. 

"When  the  sun  goes  up,  and  the  stars  go  under, 

In  that  supreme  hour  of  the  breaking  day, 

Is  it  my  eyes,  or  the  dawn  I  wonder, 

That  finds  less  of  the  gold,  and  more  of  the  gray? 

I  see  not  the  splendor,  the  tints  so  tender, 

The  rose-hued  glory  I  used  to  see; 

And  I  often  borrow  a  vague  half-sorrow 

That  another  morning  has  dawned  for  me. 

When  the  royal  smile  of  that  welcome  comer 

Beams  on  the  meadow  and  burns  in  the  sky, 

Is  it  my  eyes,  or  does  the  Summer 

Bring  less  of  bloom  than  in  days  gone  by? 

The  beauty  that  thrilled  ine.  the  rapture  that  filled  me, 

To  an  overflowing  of  happy  tears, 

I  pass  unseeing,  my  sad  eyes  being 

Dimmed  by  the  shadow  of  vanished  years. 


LA  MOKT  D' AMOUK.  191 

When  the  heart  grows  weary,  all  things  seem  dreary; 
"When  the  burden  grows  heavy,  the  way  seems  long. 
Thank  God  for  sending  kind  death  as  an  ending, 
Like  a  grand  Amen  to  a  minor  song. 


LA  MORT  D'  AMOUR. 

When  was  it  that  love  died?     We  were  so  fond, 

£So  very  fond,  a  little  while  ago. 

A\rith  leaping  pulses,  and  blood  all  aglow, 
We  dreamed  about  a  sweeter  life  beyond, 

When  we  should  dwell  together  as  one  heart, 
And  scarce  could  wait  that  happy  time  to  come. 
Now  side  by  side  we  sit  with  lips  quite  dumb, 

And  feel  ourselves  a  thousand  miles  apart. 

How  was  it  that  love  died!     I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  that  all  its  grace  untold 
Has  faded  into  gray!     I  miss  the  gold 

From  our  dull  skies;  but  did  not  see  it  go. 

Why  should  love  die?     We  prized  it,  I  am  sure; 

We  thought  of  nothing  else  when  it  was  ours; 

We  cherished  it  in  smiling,  sunlit  bowers; 
It  was  our  all;  why  could  it  not  endure? 

Alas,  we  know  not  how,  or  when  or  why 

This  dear  thing  died.     We  only  know  it  went. 
13 


19->  THE  PUNISHED. 

And  left  us  dull,  cold,  and  indifferent; 
We  who  found  heaven  once  in  each  other's  sigh. 

How  pitiful  it  is,  and  jet  how  true 

That  half  the  lovers  in  the  world,  one  day, 
Look  questioning  in  each  other's  eyes  this  way 

And  know  love's  gone  forever,  as  we  do. 

Sometimes  I  cannot  help  but  think,  dear  heart, 
As  I  look  out  o'er  all  the  wide,  sad  earth 
And  see  love's  flame  gone  out  on  many  a  hearth, 

That  those  who  would  keep  love  must  dwell  apart. 


THE  PUNISHED. 

Not  they  who  know  the  awful  gibbet's  anguish, 
Not  they  who,  while  sad  years  go  by  them,  in 

The  sunless  cells  of  lonely  prisons  languish. 
Do  suffer  fullest  penalty  for  sin. 

'Tis  they  who  walk  the  highways  unsuspected 
Yet  with  grim  fear  forever  at  their  side, 

Who  hug  the  corpse  of  some  sin  undetected, 
A  corpse  no  grave  or  coffin -lid  can  hide — 

'  T  is  they  who  are  in  their  own  chambers  haunted 
By  thoughts  that  like  unbidden  imests  intrude. 

./  O  >-i 

And  sit  down,  uninvited  and  unwanted, 
And  make  a  nightmare  of  the  solitude. 


HALF   FLEDGED.  193 


HALF   FLEDGED. 

I  feel  the  stirrings  in  me  of  great  things. 

New    half-fledged    thoughts    rise    up  and   beat   their 

wings, 

And  tremble  on  the  margin  of  their  nest. 
Then  flutter  back,  and  hide  within  my  breast. 

Beholding  space,  they  doubt  their  untried  strength. 
Beholding  men,  they  fear  them.     But  at  length 
Grown  all  too  great  and  active  for  the  heart 
That  broods  them  with  such  tender  mother  art. 
Forgetting  fear,  and  men,  and  all,  that  hour, 
Save  the  impelling  consciousness  of  power 
That  stirs  within  them — they  shall  soar  away 
Up  to  the  very  portals  of  the  Day. 

Oil,  what  exultant  rapture  thrills  me  through 
AVhen  I  contemplate  all  those  thoughts  may  do; 
Like  snow-white  eagles  penetrating  space, 
They  may  explore  full  many  an  unknown  place, 
And  build  their  nests  on  mountain  heights  unseen. 
Whereon  doth  lie  that  dreamed-of  rest  serene. 

Stay  thou  a  little  longer  in  my  breast, 
Till  my  fond  heart  shall  push  thee  from  the  nest. 
Anxious  to  see  thee  soar  to  heights  divine — 
Oh,  beautiful  but  half-fledged  thoughts  of  mine. 


194  LOVE'S    SLEEP. 


LOVE'S  SLEEP. 


(Vers  de 

We'll  cover  Love  with  roses, 

And  sweet  sleep  he  shall  take. 
None  but  a  tool  supposes 

Love  always  keeps  awake. 
I've  known  loves  without  number, 

True  loves  were  they,  and  tried; 
And  just  for  want  of  slumber 

They  pined  away  and  died. 

Our  love  was  bright  and  cheerful 

A  little  while  agone; 
Xow  he  is  pale  and  tearful, 

And  —  yes,  I've  seen  him  yawn. 
So  tired  is  he  of  kisses 

That  he  can  only  weep; 
The  one  dear  thin*]:  he  misses 

o 

And  longs  for  no\v  is  sleep. 

We  could  not  let  him  leave  us 

One  time,  he  was  so  dear, 
But  now  it  would  not  grieve  us 

If  he  slept  half  a  year. 
For  he  has  had  his  season, 

Like  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
And  it  but  stands  to  reason 

That  he  should  want  repose. 


TKUE  CULTURE. 

We  prized  the  smiling  Cupid 

Who  made  our  days  so  bright; 
But  he  has  grown  so  stupid 

We  gladly  say  good-night. 
And  if  he  wakens  tender 

And  fond,  and  fair  as  when 
He  filled  our  lives  with  splendor, 

We'll  take  him  back  again. 

And  should  he  never  waken, 
As  that  perchance  may  be, 

We  will  not  weep  forsaken, 
But  sing,  "Love,  tra-la-lee!" 


TRUE  CULTURE. 

The  highest  culture  is  to  speak  no  ill; 
The  best  reformer  is  the  man  whose  eyes 
Are  quick  to  see  all  beauty  and  all  worth; 
And  by  his  own  discreet,  well-ordered  life, 
Alone  reproves  the  erring. 

When  thy  gaze 

Turns  it  on  thine  own  soul,  be  most  severe. 
But  when  it  falls  upon  a  fellow-man 
Let  kindliness  control  it;  and  refrain 
From  that  belittling  censure  that  springs  forth 
From  common  lips  like  weeds  from  marshy  soil 


l<>0  THE   VOLUPTUARY. 


THE  VOLUPTUARY. 

Oh.  I  am  sick  of  love  reciprocated, 
Of  hopes  fulfilled,  ambitions  gratified. 

Life  holds  no  thing  to  be  anticipated, 
And  I  am  sad  from  being  satisfied. 

The  eager  joy  felt  climbing  up  the  mountain 
Has  left  me  now  the  highest  point  is  gained. 

The  crystal  spray  that  fell  from  Fame's  fair  fountain 
Was  sweeter  than  the  waters  were  when  drained. 

The  gilded  apple  which  the  world  calls  pleasure, 
And    which   I    purchased    with     my    youth    and 
strength. 

Pleased  me  a  moment.     But  the  empty  treasure 
Lost  all  its  lustre,  and  grew  dim  at  length. 

And  love,  all  glowing  with  a  golden  glory, 

Delighted  me  a  season  with  its  tale. 
It  pleased  the  longest,  but  at  last  the  story 

So  oft  repeated,  to  my  heart  grew  stale. 

T  lived  for  self,  and  all  I  asked  was  given, 
I  have  had  all,  and  now  am  sick  of  bliss, 

Xo  other  punishment  designed  by  Heaven 
Could  strike  me  half  so  forcibly  as  this. 

I  feel  no  sense  of  aught  but  enervation 

In  all  the  joys  my  selfish  aims  have  brought. 


THE    YEAR.  19" 

And  know  no  wish  but  for  annihilation, 

Since    that   would    give    me    freedom    from    the 
thought. 

Oh,  blest  is  he  who  has  some  aim  defeated; 

Some  mighty  loss  to  balance  all  his  gain. 
For  him  there  is  a  hope  not  yet  completed ; 

For  him  hath  life  yet  draughts  of  joy  and  pain, 

But  cursed  is  he  who  has  no  balked  ambition, 
Xo  hopeless  hope,  no  loss  beyond  repair, 

But  sick  and  sated  with  complete  fruition, 
Keeps  not  the  pleasure  even  of  despair. 


THE  YEAR. 

What  can  be  said  in  ]STew  Year  rhymes, 
That's  not  been  said  a  thousand  times? 

The  new  years  come,  the  old  years  go, 
We  know  we  dream,  we  dream  we  know. 

We  rise  up  laughing  with  the  light, 
We  lie  down  weeping  with  the  night. 

We  hug  the  world  until  it  stings, 
We  curse  it  then  and  sigh  for  wings. 

We  live,  we  love,  we  woo,  we  wed, 

We  wreathe  our  brides,  we  sheet  our  dead. 

We  laugh,  we  weep,  we  hope,  we  fear, 
And  that's  the  burden  of  the  year. 


198  THE   UNATTAINED. 


THE  UNATTAINED. 

A  vision  beauteous  as  the  morn, 

With  heavenly  eyes  and  tresses  streaming, 
Slow  glided  o'er  a  field  late  shorn 

Where  walked  a  poet  idly  dreaming. 
He  saw  her,  and  joy  lit  his  face, 
u  Oh,  vanish  not  at  human  speaking," 
lie  cried,  "  thou  form  of  magic  grace, 

Thou  art  the  poem  I  am  seeking. 

''  I've  sought  thee  long!  I  claim  thee  now — 

My  thought  embodied,  living,  real." 
She  shook  the  tresses  from  her  brow. 
"Nay,  nay!"  she  said,  "  I  am  ideal. 
I  am  the  phantom  of  desire — 

The  spirit  of  all  great  endeavor, 
J  am  the  voice  that  says,  '  Come  higher,' 
That  calls  men  up  and  up  forever. 

"  'Tis  not  alone  thy  thought  supreme 

That  here  upon  thy  path  has  risen; 
I  am  the  artist's  highest  dream, 

The  ray  of  light  he  cannot  prison. 
I  am  the  sweet  ecstatic  note 

Than  all  glad  music  gladder,  clearer, 
That  trembles  in  the  singer's  throat, 

And  dies  without  a  human  hearer. 


IN  THE  OEOWD.  !<><) 

"  I  am  the  greater,  better  yield, 

That  leads  and  cheers  thy  farmer  neighbor, 
For  me  he  bravely  tills  the  field 

And  whistles  gayly  at  his  labor. 
Not  thou  alone,  O  poet  soul, 

Dost  seek  me  through  an  endless  morrow, 
But  to  the  toiling,  hoping  whole 

I  am  at  once  the  hope  and  sorrow. 
The  spirit  of  the  nnattained, 

I  am  to  those  who  seek  to  name  me, 
A  good  desired  but  never  gained. 

All  shall  pursue,  but  none  shall  claim  me.'* 


IN    THE   CROWD. 

How  happy  they  are,  in  all  seeming, 

How  gay,  or  how  smilingly  proud, 
How  brightly  their  faces  are  beaming, 

These  people  who  make  up  the  crowd. 
How  they  bow,  how  they  bend,  how  they  flutter, 

How  they  look  at  each  other  and  smile, 
How  they  glow,  and  what  Ion  mots  they  utter!  1 

But  a  strange  thought  has  found  me  the  while! 

It  is  odd,  but  I  stand  here  and  fancy 
These  people  who  now  play  a  part, 

All  forced  by  some  strange  necromancy 
To  speak,  and  to  act,  from  the  heart. 


200  IK   THE   CROWD. 

What  a  hush  would  come  over  the  laughter! 

What  a  silence  would  fall  on  the  mirth ! 
And  then  what  a  wail  would  sweep  after, 

As  the  night-wind  sweeps  over  the  earth. 

If  the  secrets  held  under  and  hidden 

In  the  intricate  hearts  of  the  crowd, 
Were  suddenly  called  to,  and  bidden 

To  rise  up  and  cry  out  aloud, 
How  strange  one  would  look  to  another! 

Old  friends  of  long  standing  and  years — 
Own  brothers,  would  not  know  each  other, 

Robed  new  in  their  sorrows  and  fears. 

From  broadcloth,  and  velvet,  and  laces, 

Would  echo  the  groans  of  despair, 
And  there  would  be  blanching  of  faces 

And  wringing  of  hands  and  of  hair. 
That  man  with  his  record  of  honor, 

That  lady  down  there  with  the  rose, 
That  girl  with  Spring's  freshness  upon  her, 

Who  knoweth  the  secrets  of  those? 

Smile  on,  O  ye  maskers,  smile  sweetly! 

Step  lightly,  bow  low  and  laugh  loud! 
Though  the  world  is  deceived  and  completely, 

I  know  ye,  O  sad-hearted  crowd! 
I  watch  you  with  infinite  pity: 

But  play  on,  play  ever  your  part, 
Be  gleeful,  be  joyful,  be  witty! 

'T  is  better  than  showing  the  heart. 


LIFE   AND   I.  201 


LIFE    AND    I. 

Lite  and  I  are  lovers,  straying 

Ann  in  arm  along: 
Often  like  two  children  Maying, 

Full  of  mirth  and  song. 

Life  plucks  all  the  blooming  hours 
Growing  bv  the  wav; 

O          t/  \j     J 

Binds  them  on  my  brow  like  flowers; 
Calls  me  Queen  of  May. 

Then  again,  in  rainy  weather, 

"We  sit  vis-a-vis, 
Planning  work  we'll  do  together 

In  the  years  to  be. 

Sometimes  Life  denies  me  blisses, 

And  I  frown  or  pout; 
But  we  make  it  up  with  kisses 

Ere  the  day  is  out. 

"Woman-like,  I  sometimes  grieve  him. 

Try  his  trust  and  faith, 
Saying  I  shall  one  day  leave  him 

For  his  rival  Death. 

Then  he  always  grows  more  zealous, 

Tender,  and  more  true; 
Loves  the  more  for  being  jealous, 

As  all  lovers  do. 


202  GUERDON. 

Though  I  swear  by  stars  above  him, 

And  by  worlds  beyond, 
That  I  love  him — love  him — love  him; 

Though  my  heart  is  fond; 

Though  he  gives  me,  doth  my  lover, 
Kisses  with  each  breath — 

I  shall  one  day  throw  him  over, 
And  plight  troth  with  Death. 


GUERDON. 

Upon  the  white  cheek  of  the  Cherub  Year 

I  saw  a  tear. 
Alas!  I  murmured,  that  the  Year  should  borrow 

So  soon  a  sorrow. 
Just  then  the  sunlight  fell  with  sudden  flame: 

The  tear  became 
A  wond'rous  diamond  sparkling  in  the  light — 

A  beauteous  sight. 

Upon  my  soul  there  fell  such  woeful  loss, 

I  said,  "'  The  Cross 
Is  grevious  for  a  life  as  young  as  mine." 

Just  then,  like  wine, 
God's  sunlight  shone  from  His  high  Heavens  down ; 

And  lo!  a  crown 
Gleamed  in  the  place  of  what  I  thought  a  burden  — 

Mv  sorrow's  <nierdon. 


SNOWED  UNDER.  203 


SNOWED  UNDER. 

Of  a  thousand  things  that  the  Year  snowed  under — 

The  busy  Old  Year  who  has  gone  away — 
How  many  will  rise  in  the  Spring,  I  wonder, 

Brought  to  life  by  the  sun  of  May? 
Will  the  rose-tree  branches,  so  wholly  hidden 

That  never  a  rose-tree  seems  to  be, 
At  the  sweet  Spring's  call  come  forth  unbidden, 

And  bud  in  beauty,  and  bloom  for  me? 

Will  the  fair,  green  Earth,  whose  throbbing  bosom 

Is  hid  like  a  maid's  in  her  gown  at  night, 
Wake  out  of  her  sleep,  and  with  blade  and  blossom 

Gem  her  garments  to  please  my  sight? 
Over  the  knoll  in  the  valley  yonder 

The  loveliest  buttercups  bloomed  and  grew; 
When  the  snow  has  gone  that  drifted  them  under, 

Will  they  shoot  up  sunward,  and  bloom  anew? 

When  wild  winds  blew,  and  a  sleet-storm  pelted, 

I  lost  a  jewel  of  priceless  worth; 
If  I  walk  that  way  when  snows  have  melted, 

Will  the   gem   gleam    up   from    the   bare,   brown 

Earth? 
I  laid  a  love  that  was  dead  or  dying, 

For  the  year  to  bury  and  hide  from  sight; 
But  out  of  a  trance  will  it  waken,  crying, 

And  push  to  my  heart,  like  a  leaf  to  the  light? 


204  PLATONIC. 

Under  the  snow  lie  things  so  cherished — 

Hopes,  ambitions,  and  dreams  of  men — 
Faces  that  vanished,  and  trusts  that  perished, 

Never  to  sparkle  and  glow  again. 
The  Old  Year  greedily  grasped  his  plunder, 

Ana  covered  it  over  and  hurried  away : 
Of  the  thousand  things  that  he  hid,  I  wonder 

How  many  will  rise  at  the  call  of  May? 
O  wise  Young  Year  with  your  hands  held  under 

Your  mantle  of  ermine,  teli  me,  pray! 


PLATONIC. 

I  knew  it  the  first  of  the  Summer — 

I  knew  it  the  same  at  the  end  — 
That  you  and  your  love  were  plighted, 

But  could  n't  you  be  my  friend  ? 
Couldn't  we  sit  in  the  twilight, 

Couldn't  we  walk  on  the  shore. 
With  only  a  pleasant  friendship 

To-bind  us,  and  nothing  more? 

There  was  never  a  word  of  nonsense 

Spoken  between  us  two, 
Though  we  lingered  oft  in  the  garden 

Till  the  roses  were  wet  with  dew. 
We  touched  on  a  thousand  subjects — 

The  moon  and  the  stars  above; 
But  our  talk  was  tinctured  with  science, 

With  never  a  hint  of  love. 


PLATONIC.  205 

A  wholly  platonic  friendship." 

You  said  I  had  proved  to  you, 
Could  bind  a  man  and  a  woman 

The  whole  long  season  through. 
With  never  a  thought  of  folly, 

Though  both  are  in  their  youth." 
What  would  you  have  said,  my  lady. 

If  you  had  known  the  truth? 

Had  I  done  what  my  mad  heart  prompted — 
Gone  down  on  my  knees  to  you. 

And  told  you  my  passionate  story 
There  in  the  dusk  and  dew: 

My  burning,  burdensome  story, 
Hidden  and  hushed  so  long. 

My  story  of  hopeless  loving- 
Say,  would  you  have  thought  it  wrocg? 

But  I  fought  with  my  heart  and  conquered; 

I  hid  my  wound  from  sight; 
You  were  going  away  in  the  morning, 

And  I  said  a  calm  good-night, 
lint  now,  when  I  sit  in  the  twilight, 

Or  when  I  wa'ik  by  the  sea, 
That  friendship  c[iute  "  platonic" 

Comes  surging  over  me. 
And  a  passionate  longing  fills  me 

For  the  roses,  the  dusk  and  the  dew, — 
For  the  beautiful  Summer  vanished — 

For  the  moonlit  talks — and  vou. 


WHAT   WE   NEED. 


WHAT  WE  NEED. 

"What  does  our  country  need?     Not  armies  standing 

With  sabres  gleaming  ready  for  the  fight. 
Not  increased  navies,  skillful  and  commanding, 

To  bound  the  waters  with  an  iron  might. 
Not  haughty  men  with  glutted  purses  trying 

To  purchase  souls,  and  keep  the  power  of  place. 
Xot  jeweled  dolls  with  one  another  vieing 

For  palms  of  beauty,  elegance  and  grace. 

But  we  want  women,  strong  of  soul,  yet  iowly, 

With  that  rare  meekness,  born  of  gentleness, 
Women  whose  lives  are  pure  and  clean  and  holy, 

The  women  whom  all  little  children  bless. 
Brave,  earnest  women,  helpful  to  each  other, 

With  finest  scorn  for  all  things  low  and  mean. 
Women  who  hold  the  names  of  wife  and  mother, 

Far  nobler  than  the  title  of  a  Queen. 

O  these  are  they  who  mold  the  men  of  story. 

These  mothers,  ofttimes  shorn  of  grace  and  youth. 
Who,  worn  and  weary,  ask  no  greater  glory 

Than  making  some  young  soul  the  home  of  truth, 
Who  sow  in  hearts  ail  fallow  for  the  sowing 

The  seeds  of  virtue  and  of  scorn  for  sin, 
And,  patient,  watch  the  beauteous  harvest  growing 

And  weed  out  tares  which  crafty  hands  cast  in. 


"LEUDEMANN'S-ON-THE-RIVER."        207 
Women  who  do  not  hold  the  gift  of  beautv 

O  t/ 

As  some  rare  treasure  to  be  bought  and  sold. 
But  guard  it  as  a  precious  aid  to  duty — 

The  outer  framing  of  the  iiiner  gold; 
Women  who,  low  above  their  cradles  bending. 

Let  flattery's  voice  go  by,  and  give  no  heed, 
While  their  pure  prayers  like  incense  are  ascending: 

These  are  our  country's  pride,  our  country's  need. 


'  LEUDEMANN'S-ON-THE-RIVER." 

Toward  even  when  the  day  leans  down, 
To  kiss  the  upturned  face  of  night, 

Out  just  beyond  the  loud-voiced  town 
I  know  a  spot  of  calm  delight. 

Like  crimson  arrows  from  a  quiver 
The  red  rays  pierce  the  waters  flowing 
While  we  go  dreaming,  singing,  rowing 

To  Leudemann's-on-the-Iliver. 

The  hills,  like  some  glad  mocking-bird, 
Send  back  our  laughter  and  our  singing^ 

While  faint — and  yet  more  faint  is  heard 
The  steeple  bells  all  sweetly  ringing. 

Some  message  did  the  winds  deliver 
To  each  glad  heart  that  August  night, 
All  heard,  but  all  heard  not  aright; 

By  Leudemann's-on-the-Iiiver. 
U 


208         "  LEUDEMANX'S-ON-THE-RIVER." 

Night  falls  as  in  some  foreign  clime, 
Between  the  hills  that  slope  and  rise. 

So  dusk  the  shades  at  landing  time, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  eyes. 

"We  only  saw  the  moonbeams  quiver 
Far  down  upon  the  stream !  that  night 
The  new  moon  gave  but  little  light 

By  Leudemann's-on-the-River. 

How  dusky  were  those  paths  that  led 

Up  from  the  river  to  the  hall. 
The  tall  trees  branching  overhead 

Invite  the  early  shades  that  fall. 
In  all  the  glad  blithe  world,  oh,  never 

Were  hearts  more  free  from  care  than  when 

We  wandered  through  those  walks,  we  ten, 
By  Leudemann's-on-the-River. 

So  soon,  so  soon,  the  changes  came. 

This  August  day  we  two  alone, 
On  that  same  river,  not  the  same, 

Dream  of  a  night  forever  flown. 
Strange  distances  have  come  to  sever 

The  hearts  that  gayly  beat  in  pleasure, 

Long  miles  we  cannot  cross  or  measure — 
From  Leuderaann's-on-the-River. 

"We'll  pluck  two  leaves,  dear  friend,  to-day. 
The  green,  the  russet!   seems  it  strange 
So  soon,  so  soon,  the  leaves  can  change! 

Ah,  me!  so  runs  all  life  away. 


IN  THE   LONG  RUN.  309 

This  night  wind  chills  me,  and  I  shiver; 

The  Summer  time  is  almost  past. 

One  more  good-bye — perhaps  the  last 
To  Leudemann's-on-the-River. 


IN  THE  LONG  RUN. 

In  the  long  run  fame  finds  the  deserving  man. 

The  lucky  wight  may  prosper  for  a  day, 
But  in  good  time  true  merit  leads  the  van, 

And  vain  pretense,  unnoticed,  goes  its  way. 
There  is  no  Chance,  no  Destiny,  no  Fate, 
But  Fortune  smiles  on  those  who  work  and  wait, 
In  the  long  run. 

In  the  long  run  all  goodly  sorrow  pays, 

There  is  no  better  thing  than  righteous  pain, 

The  sleepless  nights,  the  awful  thorn-crowned  days, 
Bring  sure  reward  to  tortured  soul  and  brain. 

Unmeaning  joys  enervate  in  the  end, 

But  sorrow  yields  a  glorious  dividend 
In  the  long  run. 

In  the  long  run  all  hidden  things  are  known, 
The  eye  of  truth  will  penetrate  the  night, 

And  good  or  ill,  thy  secret  shall  be  known, 
However  well  't  is  guarded  from  the  light. 

All  the  unspoken  motives  of  the  breast 

Are  fathomed  by  the  years  and  stand  confest 
In  the  long  run. 


•210  PLEA   TO    SCIENCE. 

In  the  long  run  all  love  is  paid  by  love, 
Though  undervalued  by  the  hosts  of  earth; 

The  great  eternal  Government  above 

Keeps  strict  account  and  will  redeem  its  worth. 

Give  thy  love  freely;  do  not  count  the  cost; 

So  beautiful  a  thing  was  never  lost 
In  the  long  run. 


PLEA  TO  SCIENCE 

0  Science  reaching  backward  through  the  distance, 

Most  earnest  child  of  God, 
Exposing  all  the  secrets  of  existence, 
With  thy  divining  rod, 

1  bid  thee  speed  up  to  the  heights  supernal, 

Clear  thinker,  ne'er  sufficed; 
Go  seek  and  bind  the  laws  and  truths  eternal, 
But  leave  me  Christ. 

Upon  the  vanity  of  pious  sages 

Let  in  the  light  of  day. 
Break  down  the  superstitions  of  all  ages — 

Thrust  bigotry  away; 
Stride  on,  and  bid  all  stubborn  foes  defiance 

Let  Truth  and  Reason  reign. 
But  I  beseech  thee,  O  Immortal  Science, 

Let  Christ  remain. 


PLEA   TO   SCIENCE.  211 

What  canst  thou  give  to  help  me  bear  ray  crosses, 

In  place  of  Him,  my  Lord? 
And  what  to  recompense  for  all  my  losses, 

And  bring  me  sweet  reward? 
Thou  couldst  not  with  thy  clear,  cold  eyes  of  reason, 

Thou  couldst  not  comfort  me 
Like  one  who  passed  through  that  tear-blotted  season, 

In  sad  Gethsemane! 

Through  all  the  weary,  wearing  hour  of  sorrow, 

"What  word  that  thou  hast  said, 
Would  make  me  strong  to  wait  for  some  to-morrow 

When  1  should  find  my  dead? 
When  I  am  weak,  and  desolate,  and  lonely — 

And  prone  to  follow  wrong? 
Not  thou,  O  Science — Christ,  my  Savior,  only 

Can  make  me  strong. 

Thou  art  so  cold,  so  lofty  and  so  distant, 

Though  great  my  need  might  be, 
No  prayer,  however  constant  and  persistent, 

Could  bring  thee  down  to  me. 
Christ  stands  so  near,  to  help  me  through  each  hour, 

To  guide  me  day  by  day. 
O  Science,  sweeping  all  before  thy  power — 

Leave  Christ,  I  pray! 


LOVE'S   BURIAL. 


LOVE'S   BURIAL. 

Let  us  clear  a  little  space, 
And  make  Love  a  burial  place. 

He  is  dead,  dear,  as  you  see, 
And  he  wearies  you  and  me, 

Growing  heavier,  day  by  day, 
Let  us  bury  him,  I  say. 

Wings  of  dead  white  butterflies, 
These  shall  shroud  him,  as  he  lies 

In  his  casket  rich  and  rare, 
Made  of  finest  maiden-hair. 

With  the  pollen  of  the  rose 
Let  us  his  white  eye-lids  close. 

Put  the  rose  thorn  in  his  hand, 
Shorn  of  leaves — you  understand. 

Let  some  holy  water  fall 

On  his  dead  face,  tears  of  gall — 

As  we  kneel  by  him  and  say, 
"  Dreams  to  dreams,"  and  turn  away. 


LITTLE   BLUE   HOOD. 

Those  grave-diggers,  Doubt,  Distrust, 
They  will  lower  him  to  the  dust. 

Let  us  part  here  with  a  kiss, 
You  go  that  way,  I  go  this. 

Since  we  buried  Love  to-day 
We  will  walk  a  separate  way. 


LITTLE   BLUE    HOOD. 

Every  morning  and  every  night 

There  passes  our  window  near  the  street, 

A  little  girl  with  an  eye  so  bright, 

And  a  cheek  so  round  and  a  lip  so  sweet; 

The  daintiest,  jauntiest  little  miss 

That  ever  any  one  longed  to  kiss. 

She  is  neat  as  wax,  and  fresh  to  view, 

And  her  look  is  wholesome  and  clean,  and  good. 
Whatever  her  gown,  her  hood  is  blue, 

And  so  we  call  her  our  ';  Little  Blue  Hood," 
For  we  know  not  the  name  of  the  dear  little  lass, 
But  we  call  to  each  other  to  see  her  pass. 

'  Little  Blue  Hood  is  coming  now!'' 

And  we  watch  from  the  window  while  she  goes  by, 
She  has  such  a  bonny,  smooth,  white  brow, 

And  a  fearless  look  in  her  long-lashed  eye; 
And  a  certain  dignity  wedded  to  grace, 
Seems  to  envelop  her  form  and  face. 


214  NO   SPRING. 

Every  morning,  in  sun  or  rain, 

She  walks  by  the  window  with  sweet,  grave  air, 
And  never  guesses  behind  the  pane 

We  two  are  watching  and  thinking  her  fair; 
Lovingly  watching  her  down  the  street, 
Dear  little  Blue  Hood,  bright  and  sweet. 

Somebody  ties  that  hood  of  blue 

Under  the  face  so  fair  to  see, 
Somebody  loves  her,  beside  we  two, 

Somebody  kisses  her — why  can't  we? 
Dear  Little  Blue  Hood  fresh  and  fair, 
Are  you  glad  we  love  you,  or  don't  you  care? 


NO  SPRING. 

Up  from  the  South  come  the  birds  that  were  banished, 

Frightened  away  by  the  presence  of  frost. 
Back  to  the  vale  comes  the  verdure  that  vanished, 

Back  to  the  forest  the  leaves  that  were  lost. 
Over  the  hillside  the  carpet  of  splendor, 

Folded  through  "Winter,  Spring  spreads  down  again ; 
Along  the  horizon,  the  tints  that  were  tender, 

Lost  hues  of  Summer  time,  burn  bright  as  then. 

Onlv  the  mountains'  high  summits  are  hoary, 

«/  •/    ' 

To  the  ice-fettered  river  the  sun  gives  a  key. 
Once  more  the  gleaming  shore  lists  to  the  story 
Told  by  an  amorous  Summer-kissed  sea. 


NO    SPRING.  215 

All  things  revive  that  in  Winter  time  perished, 
The  rose  buds  again  in  the  light  o'  the  snn, 

All  that  was  beautiful,  all  that  was  cherished, 

Sweet  things  and  dear  things  and  all  things— save 
one. 

Late,  when  the  year  and  the  roses  were  lying 

Low  with  the  ruins  of  Summer  and  bloom, 
Down  in  the  dust  fell  a  love  that  was  dying, 

And  the  snow  piled  above  it,  and  made  it  a  tomb. 
Lo!  now!  the  roses  are  budded  for  blossom — 

Lo!  now!  the  Summer  is  risen  again. 
Why  dost  thou  bud  not,  O  Love  of  my  bosom? 

Why  dost  thou  rise  not,  and  thrill  me  as  then? 

Life  without  love,  is  a  year  without  Summer, 

Heart  without  love,  is  a  wood  without  song. 
Rise  then,  revive  then,  thou  indolent  comer, 

Why  dost  thou  lie  in  the  dark  earth  so  long? 
Ilise!  ah,  thou  canst  not!  the  rose-tree  that  sheddest 

Its  beautiful  leaves,  in  the  Spring  time  may  bloom, 
But  of  cold   things  the  coldest,  of  dead  things  the 
deadest, 

Love  buried  once,  rises  not  from  the  tomb. 
Green  things  may  grow  on  the  hillside  and  heather, 

Birds  seek  the  forest  and  build  there  and  sing. 
All  things  revive  in  the  beautiful  weather, 

But  unto  a  dead  love  there  cometh  no  Spring. 


216  LIPPO. 


LIPPO. 

Xow  we  must  part,  my  Lippo.     Even  so, 
I  grieve  to  see  thy  sudden  pained  surprise; 
Gaze  not  on  me  with  such  accusing  eyes — 
'T  was  thine  own  hand  which  dealt  dear  Love's  death 
blow. 

I  loved  thee  fondly  yesterday.     Till  then 
Thy  heart  was  like  a  covered  golden  cup 
Always  above  my  eager  lip  held  up. 
I  fancied  thou  wert  not  as  other  men. 

I  knew  that  heart  was  filled  with  Love's  sweet  wine, 
Pressed  wholly  for  my  drinking.     And  my  lip 
Grew  parched  with  thirsting  for  one  nectared  sip 
Of  what,  denied  me,  seemed  a  draught  divine. 

Last  evening,  in  the  gloaming,  that  cup  spilled 
Its  precious  contents.     Even  to  the  lees 
Were  offered  to  me,  saying,  "  Drink  of  these!" 
And  when  I  saw  it  empty,  Love  was  killed. 

Xo  word  was  left  unsaid,  no  act  undone, 
To  prove  to  me  thou  wert  my  abject  slave. 
Ah  Love!  hadst  thou  been  wise  enough  to  save 
One  little  drop  of  that  sweet  wine — but  one — 

I  still  had  loved  thee,  longing  for  it  then. 
But  even  the  cup  is  mine.     I  look  within, 
And  find  it  holds  not  one  last  drop  to  win, 
And  cast  it  down. — Thou  art  as  other  men. 


MIDSUMMER. 


MIDSUMMER 

After  the  May  time,  and  after  the  June  time 

Rare  with  blossoms  and  perfumes  sweet, 
Cometh  the  round  world's  royal  noon  time, 

The  red  midsummer  of  blazing  heat. 
When  the  sun,  like  an  eye  that  never  closes, 

Bends  on  the  earth  its  fervid  gaze, 
And  the  winds  are  still,  and  the  crimson  roses 

Droop  and  wither  and  die  in  its  rays. 

Unto  my  heart  has  come  that  season, 

O,  my  lady,  my  worshiped  one, 
When  over  the  stars  of  Pride  and  Reason 

Sails  Love's  cloudless,  noonday  sun. 
Like  a  great  red  ball  in  my  bosom  burning 

With  fires  that  nothing  can  quench  or  tame. 
It  glows  till  my  heart  itself  seems  turning 

Into  a  liquid  lake  of  flame. 

The  hopes  half  shy,  and  the  sighs  all  tender, 

The  dreams  and  fears  of  an  earlier  day, 
Under  the  noontide's  royal  splendor, 

Droop  like  roses  and  wither  away. 
From  the  hills  of  doubt  no  winds  are  blowing, 

From  the  isle  of  pain  no  breeze  is  sent. 
Only  the  sun  in  a  white  heat  glowing 

Over  an  ocean  of  great  content. 


218  A  REMINISCENCE. 

Sink,  O  my  soul,  in  this  golden  glory, 
Die,  O  my  hearty  in  thy  rapture-swoon, 

For  the  Autumn  must  come  with  its  mournful  story 
And  Love's  midsummer  will  fade  too  soon. 


A  REMINISCENCE. 

I  saw  the  wild  honey-bee  kissing  a  rose 

A  wee  one,  that  grows 
Down  low  on  the  bush,  where  her  sisters  above 

Cannot  see  all  that's  done 

As  the  moments  roll  on, 
Nor  hear  all  the  whispers  and  murmurs  of  love. 

They  flaunt  out  their  beautiful  leaves  in  the  sun, 

And  they  flirt,  every  one. 
With  the  wild  bees  who  pass,  and  the  gay  butterflies. 

And  that  wee  thing  in  pink — 

Why,  they  never  once  think 
That  she's  won  a  lover  right  under  their  eyes. 

It  reminded  me,  Kate,  of  a  time — you  know  when! 

You  were  so  petite  then, 
You!1  dresses  were  short,  and  your  feet  were  so  small. 

Your  sisters,  Maud-Belle 

And  Madeline — well, 
They  both  set  their  caps  for  me,  after  that  ball. 


A  KEMINISCENCE.  219 

IIow  the  blue  eyes  and  black  eyes   smiled  up  in  my 
face ! 

'T  was  a  neck-and-neck  race, 

Till  that  day  when  you  opened  the  door  in  the  hall, 
And  looked  up  and  looked  down, 
With  your  sweet  eyes  of  brown, 

And  you  seemed  so  tiny,  and  /  felt  so  tall. 

Your  sisters  had  sent  you  to  keep  me,  rny  dear, 

Till  they  should  appear. 
Then  you  were  dismissed  like  a  child  in  disgrace. 

How  meekly  you  went! 

But  your  brown  eyes,  they  sent 
A  thrill  to  my  heart,  and  a  flush  to  my  face. 

We  always  were  meeting  some  way  after  that. 

You  hung  up  my  hat, 
And  got  it  again,  when  I  finished  my  call. 

Sixteen,  and  so  sweet! 

Oh,  those  cute  little  feet! 
Shall  I  ever  forget  how  they  tripped  down  the  hall? 

Shall  I  ever  forget  the  first  kiss  by  the  door, 
Or  the  vows  murmured  o'er, 

Or  the  rage  and  surprise  of  Maude-Belle?     Well-a- 
day, 

How  swiftly  time  flows! 
And  who  would  suppose 

That  a  bee  could  have  carried  me  so  far  away? 


HESPITE. 


RESPITE. 

The  mighty  conflict,  which  we  call  existence. 
Doth  wear  upon  the  body  and  the  soul. 

Our  vital  forces  wasted  in  resistance, 

So  much  there  is  to  conquer  and  control. 

The  rock  which  meets  the  billows  with  defiance, 
Undaunted  and  unshaken  day  by  day, 

In  spite  of  its  unyielding  self-reliance, 
Is  by  the  warfare  surely  worn  away. 

And  there  are  depths  and  heights  of  strong  emotions 
That  surge  at  times  within  the  human  breast, 

More  fierce  than  all  the  tides  of  all  the  oceans 
Which  sweep  on  ever  in  divine  unrest. 

I  sometimes  think  the  rock  worn  with  adventures. 

And  sad  with  thoughts  of  conflicts  yet  to  be, 
Must  envy  the  frail  reed  which  no  one  censures, 

When  overcome  'tis  swallowed  by  the  sea. 

This  life  is  all  resistance  and  repression, 
Dear  God,  if  in  that  other  world  unseen, 

Not  rest,  we  find,  but  new  life  and  progression, 
Grant  us  a  respite  in  the  grave  between. 


A  GIKL'S   FAITH. 


A  GIRL'S  FAITH. 

Across  the  miles  that  stretch  between, 
Through  days  of  gloom  or  glad  sunlight, 

There  shines  a  face  I  have  not  seen 

Which  yet  doth  make  my  world  more  bright. 

He  may  be  near,  he  may  be  far, 

Or  near  or  far  I  cannot  see, 
But  faithful  as  the  morning  star 

He  yet  shall  rise  and  come  to  me. 

"What  though  fate  leads  us  separate  ways, 
The  world  is  round,  and  time  is  fleet. 

A  journey  of  a  few  brief  days, 

And  face  to  face  we  two  shall  meet. 

Shall  meet  beneath  God's  arching  skies, 

While  suns  shall  blaze,  or  stars  shall  gleam, 

And  looking  in  each  other's  eyes 
Shall  hold  the  past  but  as  a  dream. 

But  round  and  perfect  and  complete, 
Life  like  a  star  shall  climb  the  height, 

As  we  two  press  with  willing  feet 
Together  toward  the  Infinite. 

And  still  behind  the  space  between, 
As  back  of  dawns  the  sunbeams  play, 

There  shines  the  face  I  have  not  seen, 

Whose  smile  shall  wake  my  world  to  Day. 


233  TWO, 


TWO. 

One  leaned  on  velvet  cushions  like  a  queen  — 

To  see  him  pass,  the  hero  of  an  hour, 
Whom  men  called  great.     She  bowed  with  languid 

mien, 

And  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  knew  her  beauty's 
power. 


One  trailed  her  tinseled  garments  through  the 
And  thrust  aside  the  crowd,  and  found  a  place 

So  near,  the  blooded  courser's  prancing  feet 
Cast  sparks  of  fire  upon  her  painted  face. 


One  took  the  hot-house  blossoms  from  her  breast, 
And  tossed  them  down,  as  he  went  riding  by, 

And  blushed  rose-red  to  see  them  fondly  pressed 
To  bearded  lips,  while  eye  spoke  unto  eye. 

One,  bold  and  hardened  with  her  sinful  life, 
Yet  shrank  and  shivered  painfully,  because 

His  cruel  glance  cut  keener  than  a  knife, 

The  glance  of  him  who  made  her  what  she  was. 

One  was  observed,  and  lifted  up  to  fame, 
Because  the  hero  smiled  upon  her!  while 

One  who  was  shunned  and  hated,  found  her  shame 
In  basking  in  the  death-light  of  his  smile. 


sG    AWAY. 


SLIPPING  AWAY. 

Slipping  away — slipping  away! 

Out  of  our  brief  year  slips  the  May; 

And  Winter  lingers,  and  Summer  flies; 

And  Sorrow  abidetli,  and  Pleasure  dies; 

And  the  days  are  short,  and  the  nights  are  long; 

And  little  is  right,  and  much  is  wrong. 

Slipping  away  is  the  Summer  time; 
It  has  lost  its  rhythm  and  lilting  rhyme — 
For  the  grace  goes  out  of  the  day  so  soon, 
And  the  tired  head  aches  in  the  glare  of  noon, 
And  the  way  seems  long  to  the  hills  that  lie 
Under  the  calm  of  the  western  sky. 

Slipping  away  are  the  friends  whose  worth 
Lent  a  glow  to  the  sad  old  earth: 
One  by  one  they  slip  from  our  sight; 
One  by  one  their  graves  glean i  white; 
Or  we  count  them  lost  by  the  crueler  death 
Of  a  trust  betrayed,  or  a  murdered  faith. 

Slipping  away  are  the  hopes  that  made 
Bliss  out  of  sorrow,  and  sun  out  of  shade,' 
Slipping  away  is  our  hold  on  life; 
And  out  of  the  struggle  and  wearing  strife, 
From  joys  that  diminish,  and  woes  that  increase, 
We  are  slipping  away  to  the  shores  of  Peace. 
15 


IS   IT   DONE? 


IS  IT  DONE  ? 

It  is  done!  in  the  fire's  fitful  flashes, 

The  last  line  has  withered  and  curled. 
In  a  tiny  white  heap  of  dead  ashes 

Lie  buried  the  hopes  of  your  world. 
There  were  mad  foolish  vows  in  each  letter. 

It  is  well  they  have  shriveled  and  burned, 
And  the  ring!  oh,  the  ring  was  a  fetter, 

It  was  better  removed  and  returned. 

But  ah,  is  it  done?  in  the  embers, 

Where  letters  and  tokens  were  cast, 
Have  you  burned  up  the  heart  that  remembers, 

And  treasures  its  beautiful  past? 
Do  you  think  in  this  swift  reckless  fashion 

To  ruthlessly  burn  and  destroy 
The  months  that  were  freighted  with  passion, 

The  dreams  that  were  drunken  with  joy? 

Can  you  burn  up  the  rapture  of  kisses 

That  flashed  from  the  lips  to  the  soul  ( 
Or  the  heart  that  grows  sick  for  lost  blisses 

In  spite  of  its  strength  of  control  ( 
Have  you  burned  up  the  touch  of  warm  ringers 

That  thrilled  through  each  pulse  and  each  vein, 
Or  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  still  lingers 

And  hurts  with  a  haunting  refrain? 


A  LEAF.  225 

Is  it  done?  is  the  life  drama  ended? 

You  have  put  all  the  lights  out,  and  yet, 
Though  the  curtain,  rung  down,  has  descended, 

Can  the  actors  go  home  and  forget? 
All,  no!  they  will  turn  in  their  sleeping 

With  a  strange  restless  pain  in  their  hearts, 
And  in  darkness,  and  anguish  and  weeping, 

Will  dream  they  are  playing  their  parts. 


A  LEAF. 

Somehody  said,  in  the  crowd,  last  eve, 

That  you  were  married,  or  soon  to  be. 
I  have  not  thought  of  you,  I  helieve, 

Since  last  we  parted.     Let  me  see: 
Five  long  Summers  have  passed  since  then — 

Each  has  been  pleasant  in  its  own  way — 
And  you  are  but  one  of  a  dozen  men 

Who  have  played  the  suitor  a  Summer  day. 

I -Jut,  nevertheless,  when  I  heard  your  name, 

Coupled  with  some  one's,  not  my  own, 
There  burned  in  my  bosom  a  sudden  flame, 

That  carried  me  back  to  the  day  that  is  flown. 
I  was  sitting  again  by  the  laughing  brook, 

With  you  at  my  feet,  and  the  sky  above, 
And  my  heart  was  fluttering  under  your  look— 

The  unmistakable  look  of  Love. 


126  JSSTHETIC. 

Again  your  breath,  like  a  South  wind,  fanned 

My  cheek,  where  the  blushes  came  and  went; 
And  the  tender  clasp  of  your  strong,  warm  hand 

Sudden  thrills  through  my  pulses  sent. 
Again  you  were  mine  by  Love's  own  right — 

Mine  forever  by  Love's  decree: 
So  for  a  moment  it  seemed  last  night, 

When  somebody  mentioned  your  name  to  me. 

Just  for  the  moment  I  thought  you  mine — - 

Loving  me,  wooing  me,  as  of  old. 
The  tale  remembered  seemed  half  divine — 

Though  I  held  it  lightly  enough  when  told. 
The  past  seemed  fairer  than  when  it  was  near, 

As  "  Blessings  brighten  when  taking  flight;" 
And  just  for  the  moment  I  held  you  dear — 

When  somebody  mentioned  your  name  last  night, 


ESTHETIC. 

In  a  garb  that  was  guiltless  of  colors 
She  stood,  with  a  dull,  listless  air — 

A  creature  of  dumps  and  of  dolors, 
But  most  undeniably  fair. 

The  folds  of  her  garment  fell  round  her, 
Revealing  the  curve  of  each  limb; 

Well  proportioned  and  graceful  I  found  her. 
Although  quite  alarmingly  slim. 


AESTHETIC.  2-27 

From  the  hem  of  her  robe  peeped  one  sandal— 
"  High  art "  was  she  down  to  her  feet; 
And  though  I  could  not  understand  all 
She  said,  I  could  see  she  was  sweet. 

Impressed  by  her  limpness  and  languor, 

I.  proffered  a  chair  near  at  hand; 
She  looked  back  a  mild  sort  of  anger — 

Posed  anew,  and  continued  to  stand. 

Some  praises  I  next  tried  to  mutter 

Of  the  fan  that  she  held  to  her  face; 
She  said  it  was  "  utterly  utter," 

And  waved  it  with  languishing  grace. 

I  then,  in  a  strain  quite  poetic, 

Begged  her  gaze  on  the  bow  in  the  sky. 

She  looked — said  its  curve  was  "aesthetic," 
But  the  ''tone  was  too  dreadfully  high." 

Her  lovely  face,  lit  by  the  splendor 

That  glorified  landscape  and  sea, 
Woke  thoughts  that  were  daring  and  tender: 

Did  her  thoughts,  too,  rest  upon  me? 

"  Oh,  tell  me,"  I  cried,  growing  bolder, 

•'  Have  I  in  your  musings  a  place?  " 
"  Well,  yes,"  she  said  over  her  shoulder: 

"  I  was  thinking  of  nothing  in  space." 


228  POEMS  OF  THE  WEEK. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WEEK. 


SUNDAY. 

Lie  still  and  rest,  in  that  serene  repose 

That  on  this  holy  morning  comes  to  those 

Who  have  been  burdened  with  the  cares  which  make 

The  sad  heart  weary  and  the  tired  head  ache. 

Lie  still  and  rest — 
God's  dav  of  all  is  best. 


MONDAY. 

Awake!  arise!     Cast  oft'  thy  drowsy  dreams! 
Red  in  the  East,  behold  the  Morning  gleams. 
As  Monday  goes,  so  goes  the  week,"  dames  say 
Refreshed,  renewed,  use  well  the  initial  day. 

And  see!  thy  neighbor 
Already  seeks  his  labor. 


TUESDAY. 

Another  morning's  banners  are  unfurled — 
Another  day  looks  smiling  on  the  world. 
It  holds  new  laurels  for  thy  soul  to  win; 
Mar  not  its  grace  by  slothfulness  or  sin, 

oSTor  sad,  away, 
Send  it  to  yesterday. 


POEMS  OF  THE  WEEK.  229 

WEDNESDAY. 

Half-way  unto  the  end — the  week's  high  noon. 
The  morning  hours  do  speed  away  so  soon! 
And,  when  the  noon  is  reached,  however  bright, 
Instinctively  we  look  toward  the  night. 

*  • 

The  glow  is  lost 
Once  the  meridian  crost. 

THURSDAY. 

So  well  the  week  has  sped,  hast  thou  a  friend 
Go  spend  an  hour  in  converse.     It  will  lend 
New  beauty  to  thy  labors  and  thy  life 
To  pause  a  little  sometimes  in  the  strife. 

Toil  soon  seems  rude 
That  has  no  interlude. 

FRIDAY. 

From  feasts  abstain;  be  temperate,  and  pray; 
Fast  if  thou  wilt;  and  yet,  throughout  the  day, 
Neglect  no  labor  and  no  duty  shirk: 
Not  many  hours  are  loft  thee  for  thy  work — 

And  it  were  meet 
That  all  should  be  complete. 

SATURDAY. 

Now  with  the  almost  finished  task  make  haste; 
So  near  the  night  thou  hast  no  time  to  waste. 
Post  up  accounts,  and  let  thy  Soul's  eyes  look 
For  flaws  and  errors  in  Life's  ledger-book. 

When  labors  cease, 
How  sweet  the  sense  of  peace! 


330  GHOSTS. 


GHOSTS. 

There  are  ghosts  in  the  room. 
As  I  sit  here  alone,  from  the  dark  corners  there 

They  come  out  of  the  gloom. 
And  they  stand  at  my  side  and  they  lean  on  my  chair. 

There's  the  ghost  of  a  Hope 
That  lighted  my  days  with  a  fanciful  glow, 

In  her  hand  is  the  rope 
That  strangled  her  life  out.     Hope  was  slain  long  ago. 

But  her  ghost  comes  to-night, 
"With  its  skeleton  face  and  expressionless  eyes, 

And  it  stands  in  the  light, 

And  mocks  me,  and  jeers  me    with   sobs   and  with 
sighs. 

There's  the  ghost  of  a  Joy, 
A  frail,  fragile  thing,  and  I  prized  it  too  much. 

And  the  hands  that  destroy 
Clasped  it  close,  and  it  died  at  the  withering  touch. 

There's  the  ghost  of  a  Love, 

Born  with  joy,  reared   with  hope,   died    in  pain  and 
unrest, 

But  he  towers  above 
All  the  others — this  ghost:  yet  a  ghost  at  the  best. 

I  am  weary,  and  fain 
Would  forget  all  these  dead:  but  the  gibbering  host 

Make  my  struggle  in  vain, 
In  each  shadowy  corner  there  lurketh  a  ghost. 


FLEEING   AWAY.  5331 


FLEEING  AWAY. 

My  thoughts  soar  not  as  they  ought  to  soar, 
Higher  and  higher  on  soul-lent  wings; 

But  ever  and  often,  and  more  and  more 

They  are  dragged  down  earthward  by  little  things, 

By  little  troubles  and  little  needs, 

As  a  lark  might  be  tangled  among  the  weeds. 

My  purpose  is  not  what  it  ought  to  be. 

Steady  and  fixed,  like  a  star  on  high, 
But  more  like  a  fisherman's  light  at  sea; 

Hither  and  thither  it  seems  to  fly — 
Sometimes  feeble,  and  sometimes  bright, 
Then  suddenly  lost  in  the  gloom  of  night. 

My  life  is  far  from  my  dream  of  life— 

Calmly  contented,  serenely  glad; 
But,  vexed  and  worried  by  daily  strife, 

It  is  always  troubled,  and  ofttimes  sail — 
And  the  heights  I  had  thought  I  should  reach  one  day 
Grow  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  farther  away. 

My  heart  finds  never  the  longed-for  rest; 

Its  worldly  striving,  its  greed  for  gold, 
Chilled  and  frightened  the  calm-eyed  guest 

Who  sometimes  sought  me  in  days  of  old; 
And  ever  fleeing  away  from  me 
Is  the  higher  self  that  I  long  to  be. 


ALL  MAD. 


ALL  MAD. 

He  is  mad  as  a  hare,  poor  fellow, 

And  should  be  in  chains/'  you  say. 
I  have  n't  a  doubt  of  your  statement, 

But  who  isn't  mad,  I  pray? 
Why,  the  world  is  a  great  asylum, 

And  people  are  all  insane, 
Gone  daft  with  pleasure  or  folly, 

Or  crazed  with  passion  and  pain. 

The  infant  who  shrieks  at  a  shadow, 

The  child  with  his  Santa  Claus  faith, 
The  woman  who  worships  Dame  Fashion, 

Each  man  with  his  notions  of  death, 
The  miser  who  hoards  up  his  earnings, 

The  spendthrift  who  wastes  them  too  soon, 
The  scholar  grown  blind  in  his  delving, 

The  lover  who  stares  at  the  moon. 

The  poet  who  thinks  life  a  psean, 

The  cynic  who  thinks  it  a  fraud, 
The  youth  who  goes  seeking  for  pleasure, 

The  preacher  who  dares  talk  of  God, 
All  priests  with  their  creeds  and  their  croaking. 

All  doubters  who  dare  to  deny, 
The  gay  who  find  aught  to  wake  laughter, 

The  sad  who  find  aught  worth  a  sigh, 


HIDDEN    GEMS. 

Whoever  is  downcast  or  solemn, 
Whoever  is  gleeful  and  glad, 

Are  only  the  dupes  of  delusions — 
We  are  all  of  us — all  of  us  mad. 


HIDDEN  GEMS. 

We  know  not  what  lies  in  us,  till  we  seek; 

Men  dive  for  pearls— they  are  not  found  on 'shore, 
The  hillsides  most  unpromising  and  bleak 

Do  sometimes  hide  the  ore. 

Go,  dive  in  the  vast  ocean  of  thy  mind, 
O  man !  far  down  below  the  noisy  waves, 

Down  in  the  depths  and  silence  thou  mayst  find 
Rare  pearls  and  coral  caves. 

Sink  thou  a  shaft  into  the  mine  of  thought; 

Be  patient,  like  the  seekers  after  gold; 
Under  the  rocks  and  rubbish  lieth  what 

May  bring  thee  wealth  untold. 

Reflected  from  the  vasty  Infinite, 

However  dulled  by  earth,  each  human  mind 
Holds  somewhere  gems  of  beauty  and  of  light 

Which,  seeking,  thou  shalt  find. 


234  BY-AND-BY. 


BY-AND-BY. 

"By-and-by,"  the  maiden  sighed — "by-and-by 

He  will  claim  me  for  his  bride, 

Hope  is  strong  and  time  is  fleet; 

Youth  is  fair,  and  love  is  sweet. 

Clouds  will  pass  that  fleck  my  sky. 

He  will  come  back  by-and-by — by-and-by." 

"By-and-by,"  the  soldier  said — "by-and-by, 

After  I  have  fought  and  bled, 

I  shall  go  home  from  the  wars, 

Crowned  with  glory,  seamed  with  scars. 

Joy  will  flash  from  some  one's  eye 

When  she  greets  me  by-and-by — by-and-by." 

"By-and-by,"  the  mother  cried — "by-and-by, 

Strong  and  sturdy  at  my  side, 

Like  a  staff  supporting  me, 

Will  my  bonnie  baby  be. 

Break  my  rest,  then,  wail  and  cry — 

Thou'lt  repay  me  by-aud-by — bv-and-by." 

Fleeting  years  of  time  have  sped — hurried  by- 
Still  the  maiden  is  unwed; 
All  unknown  the  soldier  lies, 
Buried  under  alien  skies; 


OVER  THE  MAY  HILL.  235 


And  the  son,  with  blood-shot  eye 
Saw  his  mother  starve  and  die. 
God  in  Heaven!  dost  Thou  on  high, 
Keep  the  promised  by-and-by — by-and-by? 


OVEE  THE  MAY  HILL. 

All  through  the  night  time,  and  all  through  the  day 
time, 

Dreading  the  morning  and  dreading  the  night, 
Nearer  and  nearer  we  drift  to  the  May  time 

Season  of  beauty  and  season  of  blight, 
Leaves  on  the  linden,  and  sun  on  the  meadow, 

Green  in  the  garden,  and  bloom  every- where, 
Gloom  in  my  heart,  and  a  terrible  shadow, 

Walks  by  me,  sits  by  me,  stands  by  my  chair. 

Oh,  but  the  birds  by  the  brooklet  are  cheery, 

Oh,  but  the  woods  show  such  delicate  greens, 
Strange   how   you   droop  and   how   soon    you   are 
weary — 

Too  well  I  know  what  that  weariness  means. 
But  how  could  I  know  in  the  crisp  winter  weather, 

(Though  sometimes  I  noticed   a  catch  in   your 

breath, ) 
Riding  and  singing  and  dancing  together, 

How  could  I  know  you  were  racing  with  death? 


W<;  A  SONG. 

ll<nv  could  I  know  when  we  danced  until  morning, 

And  you  were  the  gayest  of  all  the  gay  crowd — 
With  only  that  shortness  of  breath  for  a  warning, 

How  could  I  know  that  you  danced  for  a  shroud? 
Whirling  and  whirling  through  moonlight  and  star 
light, 

Rocking  as  lightly  as  boats  on  the  wave, 
Down  in  your  eyes  shone  a  deep  light — a  far  light. 

How  could  I  know  'twas  the  light  to  your  grave? 

Day  by  day,  day  by  day,  nearing  and  nearing, 

Hid  under  greenness,  and  beauty  and  bloom, 
Cometh  the  shape  and  the  shadow  I'm  fearing, 

•'  Over  the  May  hill  "  is  waiting  your  tomb. 
The  season  of  mirth  and  of  music  is  over — 

I  have,.danced  my  last  dance,  I  have  sung  my  last 

song, 
Under  the  violets,  under  the  clover, 

JVIy  heart  and  my  love  will  be  lying  ere  long. 


A  SONG. 

Is  any  one  sad  in  the  world,  I  wonder? 

Does  any  one  weep  on  a  day  like  this, 
With  the  sun  above,  and  the  green  earth  under? 

Why,  what  is  life  but  a  dream  of  bliss? 

With  the  sun,  and  the  skies,  and  the  birds  above  me, 
Birds  that  sing  as  t^ey  wheel  and  fly — 


A   SONG.  237 

"With  the  winds  to  follow  and  say  they  love  me — 
"Who  could  be  lonely?     O  ho,  not  I! 

Somebody  said,  in  the  street  this  morning, 
As  I  opened  my  window  to  let  in  the  light, 

That  the  darkest  day  of  the  world  was  dawning; 
But  I  looked,  and  the  East  was  a  gorgeous  sight. 

One  who  claims  that  he  knows  about  it 
.  Tells  me  the  Earth  is  a  vale  of  sin; 
But  I  and  the  bees  and  the  birds — we  doubt  it, 
And  think  it  a  world  worth  living  in. 

Some  one  says  that  hearts  are  fickle, 

That  love  is  sorrow,  that  life  is  care, 
And  the  reaper  Death,  with  his  shining  sickle, 

Gathers  whatever  is  bright  and  fair. 

1  told  the  thrush,  and  we  laughed  together, 
Laughed  till  the  woods  were  all  a-ring; 

And  he  said  to  me,  as  he  plumed  each  feather, 
"•  "Well,  people  must  croak,  if  they  cannot  sing." 

Up  he  flew,  but  his  song,  remaining, 

Rang  like  a  bell  in  my  heart  all  day, 
And  silenced  the  voices  of  weak  complaining, 

That  pipe  like  insects  along  the  way. 

O  world  of  light,  and  O  world  of  beauty! 

"Where  are  there  pleasures  so  sweet  as  thine? 
Yes,  life  is  love,  and  love  is  duty; 

And  what  heart  sorrows?  O  no,  not  mine! 


FOES. 


FOES. 

Thank  Fate  for  foes!  I  hold  mine  dear 
As  valued  friends.     lie  can  nut  know 

The  zest  of  life  who  runneth  here 
His  earthly  race  without  a  foe. 

I  saw  a  prize.     "  Run,''  cried  my  friend; 
"'Tis  thine  to  claim  without  a  doubt/' 
But  ere  I  half-way  reached  the  end, 
I  felt  mv  strength  was  ^ivinir  out. 

/  ? 


My  foe  looked  on  the  while  I  ran; 

A  scornful  triumph  lit  his  eyes. 
With  that  perverseness  born  in  man, 

I  nerved  myself,  and  won  the  prize. 

All  blinded  by  the  crimson  glow 

Of  sin's  disguise,  I  tempted  Fate. 
"  I  knew  thy  weakness!"  sneered  my  foe, 
I  saved  myself,  and  balked  his  hate. 

Fcr  half  my  blessings,  half  my  gain, 
I  needs  must  thank  my  trusty  foe; 

Despite  his  envy  and  disdain, 

He  serves  me  well  where'er  I  go. 

So  may  I  keep  him  to  the  end. 

Xor  may  his  enmity  abate; 
More  faithful  than  the  fondest  friend, 

He  guards  me  ever  with  his  hate. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

Dear  friend,  I  pray  thee,  if  thou  wouldst  be  proving 

Thy  strong  regard  for  me, 
Make  me  no  vows.     Lip-service  is  not  loving; 

Let  thy  faith  speak  for  thee. 

Swear  not  to  me  that  nothing  can  divide  us — 

So  little  such  oaths  mean. 
But  when  distrust  and  envy  creep  beside  us, 

Let  them  not  come  between. 

Say  not  to  me  the  depths  of  thy  devotion 

Are  deeper  than  the  sea; 
But  watch,  lest  doubt  or  some  unkind  emotion 

Embitter  them  for  me. 

Vow  not  to  love  me  ever  and  forever, 

"Words  are  such  idle  things; 
But  when  we  differ  in  opinions,  never 

Hurt  me  by  little  stings. 

I'm  sick  of  words:  they  are  so  lightly  spoken, 

And  spoken,  are  but  air. 
Pd  rather  feel  thy  trust  in  me  unbroken 

Than  list  thy  words  so  fair. 

If  all  the  little  proofs  of  trust  are  heeded, 

If  thou  art  always  kind, 
No  sacrifice,  no  promise  will  be  needed, 

To  satisfy  my  mind. 

19 


240  TWO   SAT  DOWX. 


TWO   SAT   DOWN. 

Two  sat  down  in  the  morning  time, 

One  to  sing,  and  one  to  spin. 
All  men  listened  the  song  sublime — 

But  no  one  listened  the  dull  wheel's  din. 

The  singer  sat  in  a  pleasant  nook, 

And  sang  of  a  life  that  was  fair  and  sweet, 

While  the  spinner  sat  with  a  steadfast  look 
Busily  plying  her  hands  and  feet. 

The  singer  sang  on  with  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  all  men  listened  her  dulcet  tone; 

And  the  spinner  spun  on  with  a  dull  despair 
Down  in  her  heart  as  she  sat  alone. 

But  Jo!  on  the  morrow  no  one  said 
Aught  of  the  singer  or  what  she  sang. 

Men  were  saying:  '"  Behold  this  thread," 
And  loud  the  praise  of  the  spinner  rang. 

The  world  has  forgotten  the  singer's  name — 
Her  rose  is  faded,  her  songs  are  old ; 

But  far  o'er  the  ocean  the  spinner's  fame 
Yet  is  blazoned  in  lines  of  gold. 


BOUND  AND   FREE.  241 


BOUND  AND  FREE. 

Come  to  me,  Love!     Come  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ! 

Fly  as  the  ring-dove  would  fly  to  his  mate! 
Leave  all  your  cares  and  your  sorrows  behind! 

Leave  all  the  fears  of  your  future  to  Fate! 
Come!  and  our  skies  shall  be  glad  with  the  gold 

That  paled  into  gray  when  you  parted  from  me. 
Come!  but  remember  that,  just  as  of  old, 

You  must  be  bound,  Love,  and  I  must  be  free. 

Life  has  lost  savour  since  you  and  I  parted; 

I  have  been  lonely,  and  you  have  been  sad. 
Youth  is  too  brief  to  be  sorrowful-hearted — 

Come!  and  again  let  us  laugh  and  be  glad. 
Lips  should  not  sigh  that  are  fashioned  to  kiss — 

Breasts    should    not   ache   that  joy's    secret    have 

found. 
Come!  but  remember,  in  spite  of  all  this, 

I  must  be  free,  Love,  while  you  must  be  bound. 

You  must  be  bound  to  be  true  while  you  live, 

And  I  keep  my  freedom  forever,  as  now. 
You  must  ask  only  for  that  which  I  give — 

Kisses  and  love-words,  but  never  a  vow. 
Come!  I  am  lonely,  and  long  for  your  smile. 

Bring  back  the  lost  lovely  Summer  to  me! 
Come!  but  remember,  remember  the  while, 

That  vou  must  be  bound,  Love,  and  I  must  be  free. 


AX  AFTEKXOOX. 


AN  AFTERNOON. 

I  am  stirred  by  the  dream  of  an  afternoon 
Of  a  perfect  day — though  it  was  not  June; 
The  lilt  of  winds,  and  the  droning  tune 
That  a  busy  city  was  humming; 

And  a  bronze-brown  head,  and  lips  like  wine, 
Leaning  out  through  the  window-vine 
A-list  for  steps  that  were  maybe  mine- 
Eager  steps  that  were  coming. 

I  can  see  it  all,  as  a  dreamer  may — 
The  tender  smile  on  your  lips  that  day, 
And  the  glow  on  your  cheek  as  we  rode  awa\ 

O  */  */ 

Into  the  golden  weather. 

And  a  love-light  shone  in  your  eyes  of  brown 
I  swear  there  did! — as  we  drove  down 
The  crowded  avenue  out  of  the  town, 
Through  shadowy  lanes,  together: 

Drove  out  into  the  sunset-skies 
That  glowed  with  wonderful  crimson  dyes; 
And  with  soul  and  spirit,  and  heart  and  eyes^ 
We  silently  drank  their  splendor. 

But  the  golden  glory  that  lit  the  place 
Was  not  alone  from  the  sunset's  grace — 
For  I  saw  in  your  fair,  uplifted  face 
A  light  that  was  wondrously  tender. 


AX  ANSWER.  243 

I  say  I  saw  it.     And  yet  to-day 
I  ask  myself,  in  a  cynical  way, 
Was  it  only  a  part  you  had  learned  to  play, 
To  see  me  act  the  lover? 

And  I  curse  myself  for  a  fool.     And  yet 
I  would  willingly  die  without  one  regret 
Could  I  bring  back  the  day  whose  sun  has  set — 
And  you — and  live  it  over. 


AN  ANSWER. 

If  one  should  bring  a  rose  that  had  been  fair, 

And  very  fragrant,  and  surpassing  sweet, 

Before  it  lost  its  beauty  in  the  heat 

Of  crowded  ball-rooms  or  the  gas-light's  glare. 

And  beg  of  me  to  keep  it  in  my  hair 

Or  on  my  breast  through  all  the  coming  hours, 

Casting  aside  all  fresher,  brighter  flowers 

Which  other  hands  might  offer  me  to  wear, 

Would  it  not  seem  presumptuous? 

Yet  you  bring 

The  remnant  of  a  heart  that  long  ago 
Burned  all  its  lire  to  ashes;  and  you  say, 
"  Keep  this  and  cast  all  other  hearts  away." 
I  stooped  and  blew,  and  could  not  raise  a  glow; 
Square  in  your  face  I  throw  your  offering. 


244  AQUILEIA. 


AQUILEIA. 


[On  the  election  of  the  Roman  Emperor  Maximus,  by  the 
Senate,  A.D.  238,  a  powerful  army,  headed  by  the  Thracian  giant 
Maximus,  laid  siege  to  Aquileia.  Though  poorly  prepared  for 
war,  the  constancy  of  her  citizens  rendered  her  impregnable.  The 
women  of  Aquileia  cut  off  their  hair  to  make  ropes  for  the  mili 
tary  engines.  The  small  body  of  troops  was  directed  by  Chrispi- 
nus,  a  Lieutenant  of  the  Senate.  Apollo  was  the  deity  supposed 
to  protect  them. — Gibbon's  Roman  History.] 


"  The  ropes,  the  ropes!  Apollo  send  us  ropes,'' 
Chrispiims  cried,  "  or  death  attends  our  hopes." 
Then  panic  reigned,  and  many  a  mournful  sound 
Hurt  the  cleft  air;  for  where  could  ropes  be  found? 

Up  rose  a  Roman  mother:  tall  was  she 

As  her  own  son,  a  youth  of  noble  height. 

A  little  child  was  clinging  to  her  knee — 

She  loosed  his  twining  arms  and  put  him  down, 

And  her  dark  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  light. 

How  like  a  queen  she  stood!  her  royal  crown, 
The  rich  dark  masses  of  her  splendid  hair, 
Just  flecked  with  spots  of  sunshine  here  and  there, 
Twined  round  her  brow;  't  was  like  a  coronet, 
Where  gems  of  gold  lie  bedded  deep  in  jet. 


AQUILEIA.  245 

She  loosed  the  comb  that  held  the  shilling  strands, 
And  threaded  out  the  meshes  with  her  hands. 
The  purple  mass  fell  to  her  garment's  hem. 
A  queen  new  clothed  without  her  diadetm 
She  stood  before  her  subjects. 

"  Now,"  she  cried, 

"Give  me  thy  sword,  Julianus!"     And  her  son 
Unsheathed  the  blade  (that  had  not  left  his  side 
Save  when  it  sought  a  foeman's  blood  to  shed), 
Awed  by  her  regal  bearing,  and  obeyed. 

With  the  white  beauty  of  her  firm  fair  hand, 
She  clasped  the  hilt;  then  severed,  one  by  one, 
Her  gold-flecked  purple  tresses.     Strand  on  strand, 
Free  e'en  as  foes  had  fallen  by  that  blade, 
Robbed  of  its  massive  wealth  of  curl  and  coil, 
Yet  like  some  antique  model,  rose  her  head 
In  all  its  classic  beauty. 

"See!"  she  said. 

And  pointed  to  the  shining  mound  of  hair; 
>;  Apollo  makes  swift  answer  to  thy  prayer, 
Chrispinus.     Quick!  now,  soldiers,  to  thy  toil!" 

Forth  from  a  thousand   throats  what  seemed  one 

voice 

Rose  shrilly,  filling  all  the  air  with  cheer. 
"Lo!"  quoth  the  foe,  "our  enemies  rejoice!" 


246  1UVEK  AND   SEA. 

Well  might  the  Thracian  giant  quake  with  fear! 
For  while  skilled  hands  caught  up  the  gleaming 

threads 

And  bound  them  into  cords,  a  hundred  heads 
Yielded  their  beauteous  tresses  to  the  sword, 
And  cast  them  down  to  swell  the  precious  hoard. 

Nor  was  the  noble  sacrifice  in  vain; 
Another  day  beheld  the  giant  slain. 


RIVER  AND  SEA. 

We  stood  by  the  river  that  swept 
In  its  glory  and  grandeur  away; 

But  never  a  pulse  o'  me  leapt, 

And  you  wondered  at  me  that  day. 

We  stood  by  the  lake  as  it  lay 

With  its  dimpled  face  turned  to  the  light 
Was  it  strange  I  had  nothing  to  say 

To  so  fair  and  enchanting  a  sight? 

I  look  on  your  tresses  of  gold — 

You  are  fair  and  a  thing  to  be  loved — 

Do  you  think  I  am  heartless  and  cold 
That  I  look  and  am  wholly  unmoved? 

One  answer,  dear  friend,  I  will  make 

To  the  questions  your  eyes  ask  of  me: 
"  Talk  not  of  the  river  or  lake 

To  those  who  have  looked  on  the  sea." 


AVISHES  FOR  A  LITTLE  CURL. 


WISHES  FOR  A  LITTLE  GIRL. 


AVhat  would  I  ask  the  kindly  Fates  to  give 
To  crown  her  life,  if  I  could  have  my  way? 

My  strongest  wishes  would  be  negative, 
If  they  would  but  obey. 

Give  her  not  greatness.     For  great  souls  must  stand 

Alone  and  lonely  in  this  little  world: 
Cleft  rocks  that  show  the  great  Creator's  hand, 

Thither  by  earthquakes  hurled. 

Give  her  not  genius.     Spare  her  the  cruel  pain 
Of  finding  her  whole  life  a  prey  for  daws; 

Of  hearing  with  quickened  sense  and  burning  brain 
The  world's  sneer-tinged  applause. 

Give  her  not  perfect  beauty's  gifts.     For  then 
Her  truthful  mirror  would  infuse  her  mind 

AArith  love  for  self,  and  for  the  praise  of  men. 
That  lowers  woman-kind. 

But  make  her  fair  and  comely  to  the  sight, 

Give  her   more  heart  than  brain,  more  love   than 
pride, 

Let  her  be  tender-thoughted,  cheerful,  bright, 
Some  strong  man's  star  and  guide. 


248  WHAT   HAPPENS. 

Not  vainly  questioning  why  she  was  sent 
Into  this  restless  world  of  toil  and  strife, 

Let  her  go  bravely  on  her  way,  content 
To  make  the  best  of  life. 


WHAT  HAPPENS. 


"When  thy  hand  touches  mine,  through  all  the  mesh 

Of  intricate  and  interlaced  veins 

Shoot  swift  delights  that  border  on  keen  pains: 
Flesh  thrills  to  thrilling  flesh. 

When  in  thine  eager  eyes  I  look  to  find 
A  comrade  to  my  thought,  thy  ready  brain 
Delves  down  and  makes  its  inmost  meaning  plain: 

Mind  answers  unto  mind. 

When  hands  and  eyes  are  hid  by  seas  that  roll 
Wide  wastes  between  us,  still  so  near  thou  art 
I  count  the  very  pulses  of  thy  heart.- 

Soul  speaketh  unto  soul. 

So  every  law,  or  human  or  divine, 

In  heart  and  brain  and  spirit  makes  thee  mine. 


EOMKEY. 


ROMNEY. 


Xay,  Romney,  nay — I  will  not  hear  you  say 

Those  words  again:  "  I  love  you,  love  you,  sweet!" 
You  are  profane — blasphemous.     I  repeat, 

You  are  no  actor  for  so  grand  a  play. 

You  love  with  all  your  heart?  AVell,  that  may  be; 
Some  cups  are  fashioned  shallow.  Should  I  try 
To  quench  my  thirst  from  one  of  those,  when  dry— 

I  who  have  had  a  full  bowl  proffered  me — 

A  new  bowl  brimming  with  a  draught  divine, 
One  single  taste  thrilled  to  the  finger-tips? 
Think  you  I  even  care  to  bathe  my  lips 

With  this  poor  sweetened  water  you  call  wine? 

And  though  I  spilled  the  nectar  ere  'twas  quaffed, 
And  broke  the  bowl  in  wanton  folly,  yet 
I  would  die  of  my  thirst  ere  I  would  wet 

My  burning  lips  with  any  meaner  draught. 

So  leave  me,  Romney.     One  who  has  seen  a  play 

Enacted  by  a  star  cannot  endure 

To  see  it  rendered  by  an  amateur. 
You  know  not  what  Love  is — now  go  away! 


PEAYER. 


PRAYER. 

I  do  not  undertake  to  say 

That  literal  answers  come  from  Heaven, 
But  I  know  this — that  when  I  pray, 

A  comfort,  a  support  is  given 
That  helps  me  rise  o'er  earthly  things 
As  larks  soar  up  on  airy  wings. 

In  vain  the  wise  philosopher 

Points  out  to  me  my  fabric's  flaws, 

In  vain  the  scientists  aver 

That  "all  things  are  controlled  bv  laws." 

tf 

My  life  has  taught  me  day  by  day 
That  it  availeth  much  to  pray. 

I  do  not  stop  to  reason  out 

The  why  and  how.     I  do  not  care, 

Since  I  know  this,  that  when  I  doubt, 
Life  seems  a  blackness  of  despair, 

The  world  a  tomb;  and  when  I  trust, 

Sweet  blossoms  spring  up  in  the  dust. 

Since  I  know  in  the  darkest  hour, 

If  I  lift  up  ray  soul  in  prayer. 
Some  sympathetic  loving  Power 

Sends  hope  and  comfort  to  me  there. 
Since  balm  is  sent  to  ease  my  pain. 
What  need  to  argue  or  explain? 


"LOVE   IS   ENOUGH."  25] 

Prayer  has  a  sweet  refining  grace, 

It  educates  the  soul  and  heart. 
It  lends  a  luster  to  the  face, 

And  by  its  elevating  art 
It  gives  the  mind  an  inner  sight 
That  brings  it  near  the  Infinite. 

From  our  gross  selves  it  helps  us  rise 
To  something  which  we  yet  may  be. 

And  so  I  ask  not  to  be  wise, 
It'  thus  my  faith  is  lost  to  me. 

Faith  that  with  angels'  voice  and  touch, 

Says  "Pray,  for  prayer  availeth  much." 


"LOVE  IS  ENOUGH." 

Love  is  enough.     Let  us  not  ask  for  gold. 

Wealth  breeds  false  aims,  and  pride  and  selfishness: 
In  those  serene,  Arcadian  days  of  old 

Men  gave  no  thought  to  princely  homes  and  dress. 
The  gods  who  dwelt  on  fair  Olympia's  height 
Lived  only  for  dear  love  and  love's  delight. 

Love  is  enough. 

Love  is  enough.     Why  should  we  care  for  fame? 

Ambition  is  a  most  unpleasant  guest: 
It  lures  us  with  the  glory  of  a  name 

Far  from  the  happy  haunts  of  peace  and  rest. 
Let  us  stay  here  in  this  secluded  place 
Made  beautiful  by  love's  endearing  grace! 

Love  is  enough. 


252  POSSESSION. 

Love  is  enough.     Why  should  we  strive  for  power? 

It  brings  men  only  envy  and  distrust. 
The  poor  world's  homage  pleases  but  an  hour, 

And  earthly  honors  vanish  in  the  dust. 
The  grandest  lives  are  ofttimes  desolate; 
Let  me  be  loved,  and  let  who  will  be  great. 

Love  is  enough. 

Love  is  enough.     Why  should  \ve  ask  for  more? 

What  greater  gift  have  gods  vouchsafed  to  men? 
What  better  boom  of  all  their  precious  store 

Than  our  fond  hearts  that  love  and  love  again? 
Old  love  may  die;  new  love  is  just  as  sweet; 
And  life  is  fair  and  ail  the  world  complete: 

Love  is  enough ! 


POSSESSION. 

That  which  we  had  we  still  possess, 

Though  leaves  may  drop  and  stars  may  fall; 

No  circumstance  can  make  it  less, 
Or  take  it  from  us,  all  in  all. 

That  which  is  lost  we  did  not  own; 

We  only  held  it  for  a  day — 
A  leaf  by  careless  breezes  blown: 

No  fate  could  take  our  own  away. 

I  hold  it  as  a  changeless  law 

From  which  no  soul  can  sway  or  swerve, 
We  have  that  in  us  which  will  draw 

Whate'er  we  need  or  most  deserve, 


MY   HOME.  253 

Even  as  the  magnet  to  the  steel 

Our  souls  are  to  our  best  desires; 
The  Fates  have  hearts  and  they  can  feel — 

They  know  what  each  true  lite  requires. 

We  think  we  lose  when  we  most  gain; 

"We  call  joys  ended  ere  begun ; 
When  stars  fade  out  do  skies  complain, 

Or  glory  in  the  rising  sun? 

No  fate  could  rob  us  of  our  own — 
No  circumstance  can  make  it  less; 

What  time  removes  was  but  a  loan, 
For  what  was  ours  we  still  possess. 


MY  HOME. 

This  is  the  place  that  I  love  the  best, 
A  little  brown  house,  like  a  ground-bird's  nest, 
Hid  among  grasses,  and  vines,  and  trees, 
Summer  retreat  of  the  birds  and  bees. 

The  tenderest  light  that  ever  was  seen 

Sifts  through  the  vine-made  window  screen — 

Sifts  arid  quivers,  and  flits  and  falls 

On  home-made  carpets  and  gray-hung  walls. 

All  through  June,  the  west  wind  free 
The  breath  of  the  clover  brings  to  me. 
All  through  the  languid  July  day 
1  catch  the  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay. 


354  MY   HOME. 

The  morning-glories  and  scarlet  vine 
Over  the  door- way  twist  and  twine; 
And  every  day,  when  the  house  is  still, 
The  humming-bird  comes  to  the  window-sill. 

In  the  cnnningest  chamber  under  the  sun 

O 

I  sink  to  sleep  when  the  day  is  done; 

And  am  waked  at  morn,  in  my  snow-white  be<lx 

By  a  singing-bird  on  the  roof  o'erhead. 

Better  than  treasures  brought  from  Koine, 
Are  the  living  pictures  I  see  at  home — 
My  aged  father,  with  frosted  hair, 
And  mother's  face,  like  a  painting  rare. 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  heat, 

I  get  but  sounds  and  odors  sweet. 

Who  can  wonder  I  love  to  stay, 

Week  after  week,  here  hidden  away, 

In  this  sly  nook  that  I  love  the  best — 

The  little  brown  house  like  a  ground-bird's  nest? 


